Caged Freedom
by Sabreene
Summary: A story of the interwoven lives of Anders & Surana. How they met, parted, and met again. Takes place both pre-blight in the past & post-blight w/Alistair as King. Secrets, intrigue and their past make life much more complicated than they ever expected.
1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note: ** Thanks to everyone who has reviewed me! And thanks to Bioware for most the settings, characters and game.

* * *

_Circle Tower, Lake Calenhad_

Anders lay back on the polished floor, sliding some books under his head. The sun slanted through the windows at just the right angle to warm his face. It was quiet up here, except for the tiny mew of the kitten he'd found earlier that day, slinking around tower corners. He lifted the kitten onto his chest. The cat turned around three times and then curled up, purring. Anders sighed contentedly. He should be studying some such or the other, or at least be in the apprentice rooms. Even though he'd passed his Harrowing, Irving made him repeat the courses. Punishment for his escapes. He hated it down there. People going from task to task, never bothering to ask why, never doing anything for the pure pleasure of it. Did they have no clue as to what was really going on here, in these towers? It was nearly as bad as the cult he and his father had run amuck of that time in the woods. At least that had been on a small scale. This may not be as bad in its teaching, but the scope of it…

The image of tower after tower in country after country filled his thoughts, mages like moths caught in lanterns. He squeezed his eyes shut, trying to banish the image, trying to take calm breaths and slow his heart. The world was not constricting all around him. Escape. He needed to escape again. He wondered if his parents were still out there, somewhere. He hadn't been able to find them in any of his previous escape attempts. They told him his family was dead, when they brought him to the tower. He never believed them. They said a lot of things that weren't true. He had found his brother, although he never contacted him. Some things were better left as they were.

Anders let his fingers play over the soft fur of the purring kitten. The rumble grew, vibrating through him. It felt calming, like the warm sun on his face. He laughed softly, as to not disturb the little mouser. This was good, but there was more out there. Something he needed to find. The door behind him creaked open, and his laughter stilled. He didn't move, but his fingers clenched in the kitten's fur.

The room seemed more still than it had moments ago.

Then,"_The Will of Andraste_ is your new headrest?" A teasing voice asked into the thick silence.

Anders smile crooked, but he didn't open his eyes. Auria Surana. She'd been a bright spot in the weeks since he'd been released from confinement. With a quick wit and a power that often placed her in the advanced classes, she was a favorite sparring opponent. Like a younger sister, he reminded himself.

"I tried to find _Andraste and the Devout Apprentice_" he replied, "but I can never find it in the library. I think Godwin likes its pictures."

"You mean those dirty drawings you added to it last month," she said, with a raised eyebrow.

"I _enhanced_ it. They should thank me. More people will want to be the devout apprentice, once they see that."

Anders heard the soft click of her shoes as she crossed the room. A shadow fell across his face, cutting off the warmth of the sun. He still hadn't opened his eyes. He felt her looking down, almost felt the tickle of her hem as it brushed his arm. Then sunlight flooded over him again, and he heard the rustle of her robes as she sat down beside him. He slit his eyes, unknowingly looking much the same as the cat, to look at her.

"That's such a sweet kitty. Where did you find him?" She reached out to stroke the purring kitten, and Anders felt a little thrill as the bare of her wrist passed over his forearm. Much too young, he reminded himself, trying not to notice the tug of the fabric over her curves.

"He was mousing in the upstairs tower, and by his full stomach I think he finds plenty to fill his belly, whether they be mouse or mousey demon."

She laughed, her fingers sliding along the cat's outline, grazing his chest. He realized suddenly this was the first time they'd been completely alone. His smiled faded as hers grew. Her fingertips continued to play along the kitten's side, alternately brushing fur and then chest. "Auria, what are you doing?"

"What?" She opened her eyes wide, innocently. "I was just petting… the cat."

Anders shifted, putting one arm under his head, better to look up at her. She was younger than he was, much too young. Her face was still rounded, and she hadn't quite grown into her features yet. He could see the tips of her pointed ears poking through her dark brown hair. He had an overwhelming urge to run his finger up to the tip. She was quick-witted, strong and had something about her, something he couldn't quite pinpoint. But she was young, and he wasn't going to be kept here.

"You should be down with the other students, in the apprentice rooms. Not with someone like me. You'll get quite the reputation."

She smiled then, and let her hand rest in the center of his chest, giving up all pretense of petting the cat. "But you're my favorite sparring partner," she said, repeating his thought from earlier. Anders opened his mouth to say something, some witty reply, but then just quirked his lips in a half smile and shook his head. "Are you telling me to leave?" her tongue ran lightly over her lips, moistening them. She worried her bottom lip back and forth between neat, even white teeth. Her hand still hadn't left his chest.

He laughed, sitting up, capturing her hand before it slid into his lap along with the cat. "Are you testing out your new womanly wiles on me, Auria?" Anders narrowed his eyes at her, "Or are you just trying to find out if I do indeed, wear nothing beneath this robe? A bet with your girlfriends, perhaps?"

"It's not a bet… although I would like to find out." Here she threaded her fingers through his, turning his capturing of her hand into something much more intimate.

He swallowed, laughing at bit. "Those drawings were just for fun, you know. I'm much too old for you. You should be trying this out on someone your own age."

Anders breath caught as she leaned forward and brushed her lips against his neck, letting a little bit of her power flutter between them, like an electric current.

"I'm not trying anything out, Anders. That's not why I came to find you. I know… I know you'll probably leave again, sometime soon. Maybe this will be the time you don't come back. I just…" her voice dropped to a silky murmur, "I wanted to know you before you were gone."

"Auria…" Anders held her at bay, watched as her eyes grew serious.

"I was here, the day they brought you in, you know. You probably don't remember me," she said.

He shook his head slightly, off guard, "I'm sorry, I don't. I really wasn't paying clear attention to anything that day."

She nodded, and continued, "My magic came early and strong, they took me from the alienage when I was very young. I remember my parents, but it's more an image or an idea of them. A feeling of them. And a feeling of something else. That there is… I don't know. Something more to all of this, something out there. I can't explain it. But when I saw you, it felt more defined to me. You've escaped so many times - every time you do the feeling gets stronger." She looked down, a red flush spreading up across her cheeks. "I've watched you for years. I've listened to your arguments with them. I know… I don't think your family is gone either."

He turned his head away from her gaze. The last time he'd seen his parents… Years had passed since then, but he still felt it keenly, vividly. He remembered his mother's smile. They'd been happy together. Then his brother married, and everything changed. He didn't blame his brother, how could he? But that didn't lessen the sharpness of the old pain. It felt odd, to have someone here, actually seeing him. He hadn't been seen in a long time.

Auria placed her hand over his heart, her eyes strangely old in her young face.

"The templars can lock you up in here, but they can't cage who you are. You aren't one of theirs. Maybe your family is out there and maybe they're not, but you will always be free." Her fingers slid into his again, pressing palm to palm, "Someday you'll make it, you won't be brought back." She sat on her heels, letting her fingers fall from his. "That sounds silly, doesn't it. Makes me sound childish."

Their eyes met, and held. He didn't turn away this time. Close-up, he could see flakes of gold caught in the color of her eyes, and a light dusting of freckles over her upturned nose. It didn't sound childish to him, although it sounded… what? Too simply stated for the complexity he felt?

"I'm not really free, Auria. None of us are. They have our blood. All across this land and the next, and the next. We are all of us bound and hunted. I don't… Don't you see, it's easier to draw pictures in the apprentice manuals and nap with Andraste under my head than do anything important." The bitter tone of his voice surprised him, "I don't think you're a child, but I'm not who you think I am, either."

"But you are. You are exactly who I think you are. You're free, even if you don't know it. You never gave up, or gave in." The words were earnest and idealistic, but they rang through him all the same. Her mouth was so close to his now. He had never given up - he never would. No matter what they did to him, or how many times they locked him up. She smelled sweet and fresh, like morning on a spring day. The past mornings sparring with her, he'd never let himself imagine… he tried always to be honest, never to break hearts. At least, not on purpose.

She pulled back a little, almost as if she knew what he was thinking.

"You're not my first, Anders," here she gave a soft, almost sad little smile. "It might've been nice if you had been." A silence stretched for a few moments before she continued, "I don't… I can't leave here like you do. Maybe I should. Maybe I am young and silly - but I already know you take happiness where you find it. Find contentment in the little things. The purring cat. The sweetness of a freshly baked pie. Burning Senior Enchanter Todd accidentally with a fire spell."

They both laughed, remembering that morning and the look on his face. She moved closer, twining her fingers through his long hair. "This makes me happy, now."

He could see himself reflected back in her eyes, but also something more. A need. Maybe he was her escape. And how could he deny anyone the escape they were looking for?

"It's such a warm, lazy afternoon. No one will be looking for us, and no one will find us here." Anders let his hands encircle her waist as he spoke, feeling her soft cheek rub against his rough one.

"Mmmhmm," she replied, lips brushing his ear, "We should enjoy ourselves while we can. And I was very interested in that second drawing you made…"

Anders laughed, knocking the cat out of his lap as he pulled her further onto him. "And there was still that question you wanted answered… just what do I have on under these?"

"I have been wondering that for ever," she cocked an eyebrow suggestively at him, and glanced downwards.

"Let's satisfy your curiosity then."

And he rolled her over, pulling her under him, letting _The Will of Andraste_ become her headrest.

Much later, much much later, as the dim orange light of sunset fell over their exhausted bodies, Anders held her to him and knew she was right. He would leave soon. But until then… there were a lot of afternoons to fill. And a lot of happiness and contentment to be had in those fleeting moments before his need for escape outweighed his caution.

* * *

_Vigil's Keep, Amaranthine_

Anders couldn't decide if his luck was outrageously good, or outrageously bad. He'd been caught, again. He had no idea what they would do to him this time. Probably hang him. But his captors had just been killed, and he was free. Of course, he was free in a castle full of raving darkspawn, but hey, it was a start. He could hear fighting and the wailing sounds of death coming from other parts of the Keep. Right. First things first, find his mage staff. Creatures poured into the room, snarling, their faces dripping flesh like melting candlesticks. Instinctively, fire shot from his hands. Had he known he could do that?

The door burst opened behind him and he turned quickly. Living people. Armor. He glanced behind him to see the last monster fall right next to a dead templar. Oh, maker. This looked bad. "Ah... I didn't do it!" he exclaimed, raising his hands. The stench of burning darkspawn rose up all around them. The small woman in front of him radiated power, he could feel her aura from here. An elven mage? Anders eyes met hers over the shambles of the room. His heart gave a strange, twisting leap, causing a sharp pain inside him.

Auria?


	2. Chapter 2

_Vigil's Keep, Amaranthine_

He'd thought she was dead, fallen with so many others when the Circle was overrun, but here she was standing in front of him. Time felt hollowed out, as if he could reach through it and come out the other side. He remembered her laughing, the way she worried the corner of her mouth back and forth when she concentrated, the feel of her soft lips against his in stolen moments of the night. He felt the slight weight of the trinket he always wore hanging around his neck. She'd given it to him the last night they spent together. But not the last time they'd seen each other. No, that was a time he would rather not remember. She'd turned away from him then, and he was never sure what she'd actually said. He knew what she meant though, as she'd walked away. She'd meant she'd been wrong about him.

Staring at her, standing full of life right across from him – he didn't know quite what to say, which didn't happen often. He wanted to go to her, to laugh, to pick her up and kiss her like no time had gone by, like that last meeting had never taken place. But there were fallen Templars all around him, and he knew why she was here, now. He felt stupid, like he should've known this before. How had he never considered that Auria, the Grey Warden, the Hero of Ferelden, the Elven Mage who had asked that mages be freed – how had he never thought that she was his Auria? His powerful, tantalizing, oh so infuriating, headstrong Auria? Only she wasn't really his, not now.

The Warden Commander was also rumored to be mistress of the king.

And so he said, with a bright tone in his voice, as if those days had never happened, "Hey, I recognize you from the Circle."

* * *

_Circle Tower, Lake Calenhad_

They tumbled into the grass, laughing and hushing each other. The sun was bright and warm overhead, and they could hear the water softly lapping in the distance, from over the stone wall.

"They'll hear us!" Auria giggled, breathlessly, and then commanded, "Stop laughing!"

Anders straightened his face, and bowed from his sprawled position on the grass, "At your command, my lady. You do know that will do no good unless you stop laughing too?"

"What do you think they would do to us, if they found us out here?" she stretched out beside him, staring up at the sky.

"Personally, I'm hoping to be turned into a dog. Then I could run around the whole of Ferelden with abandon, and people would feed me scraps from their table. I think Irving could do it, if he put his mind to it."

"Hmmm… Somehow that doesn't really seem like such a stretch, for you. Didn't I just see cook slipping you an extra meat pie at supper?" she cocked her eyebrow at him, suspiciously.

"So what if she did? I'm a growing boy. Are you trying to deny me my one true pleasure of the day?" he shook his head, sadly.

"Your one true pleasure?" Auria rolled over, pinning him down with sudden force.

"Oooh, I give, I give. My second true pleasure. I forgot how much I love a good beating."

"Well, I'll just have to remind you then, won't I?" she slid her hands into his, holding them above his head, pressing him into the grass.

"I think you should. Every day. I have a very bad memory. Maybe you should start immediately, so I don't forget again."

He lifted his head to capture her mouth in a sudden kiss. She made a soft sound and opened her mouth to his, hot and yielding and demanding all at the same time. Her hair fell around them, a slightly spiced, sweet scent. She intoxicated him, and not for the first time he wondered if she'd practiced some sort of disorienting spell that kept him off balance and wanting her more. He could never bring himself to ask, he didn't want to know if she was.

A garden gate squeaked from not far off, and they stiffened. Heavy footsteps crunched over the gravel, and they could hear an off-key humming and the sound of scissors clipping intermittently.

"It's the scullery maid. She must be trimming herbs," Auria whispered.

"She won't come out this way, but if she's already out in the garden, then they'll be letting the children out into the courtyard soon, for their daily dose of sunshine." Anders lifted her to her feet, "Just enough so no one can accuse them of running a prison, but not enough to even know what a horizon looks like."

"I've seen a horizon."

"From a window. It's not the same. They've never even let you dip a toe in the water."

Auria turned away, starting towards the courtyard. "They have, once. I don't care if I ever step in water again."

Anders caught her hand. "Auria, I'm sorry. I forgot."

She let him pull her against him for a moment, and they paused in the shade of the towering building. He stroked her hair, planting small kisses across her cheek.

She'd been five when they brought her to the Circle. Soon after the templars had given her their "baptism" by dropping her in the lake in new voluminous robes and heavy boots. They'd pulled her out before any irreparable damage was done, but Anders knew she still had nightmares of drowning. They'd done the same to him, when he arrived. He'd been warned of the tradition beforehand, and had let himself flail about and sink under the water like any other boy who couldn't swim. His fourteen year old self had been shocked at the length of time they let him struggle. Now he was just surprised they actually kept a healing mage on hand, for "accidents".

He kissed her temple, "Forgive me?"

"People should know things they do here," she whispered in answer, against his neck. "You could tell them. People like you, they listen. You'll be free of here someday. Maybe…"

"Auria. Who am I going to tell? Who would listen to a wanted apostate, traveling the world and spreading rumors about the Maker-blessed templars? Maybe I'll run into the Queen in a tavern, and I can buy her a pint, and she'll go, 'Oooh, wicked templars, I'll save you all'."

"Don't." She pulled away from him. "Besides, you're much more likely to meet the King in a tavern. He would probably even take you up on a pint."

They made their way back slowly, fingers entwined, walking silently. Clouds rolled in, dimming the sun and turning the sky white. The tower hulked over them, threatening for all its beauty. A doubled great stone wall ran the perimeter of the island, but between the tower and inner wall lay a bit of grass and gardens. Only one garden and the main courtyard were allowed to mages, and even then only at certain hours. The central garden, a tiny thing by all normal standards, was fair game until the last bell. Anders had been out this way many times, testing boundaries and running timetables on the guards. He knew a pair of them was due soon, but they were also...

"Are those templars?" Auria's voice was shocked.

"What, you think templars don't get urges?"

She ducked behind a tree, pulling him with her.

"Who are they? I can't see their faces. Oh, now that doesn't look comfortable."

"No," Anders agreed, "The armor is a hindrance."

"But why don't they take all of it off, instead of just… Those bushes are going to leave welts, if they continue like that."

"Have you ever tried getting in and out of one of those tin cans? Just another reason they're so jealous of our robes, my darling."

"Oh, but… no, look! They're too top heavy! They're going to go down!"

They held their breath, dumbfounded, as the two templars toppled on to one another, armor banging together, crashing deeper into the brush with a great, "Oooof!"

Auria turned to him, her eyes bright with tears, trying to hold back laughter, "Did you hear that? They made the funniest clanging sound when they went down!" Her eyes widened, as they could now hear moans coming from deeper in the bushes. "What position do you think they're in? I think we should have a peek…" she started back the way they'd come.

"Auria, no," Anders laughed, and tugged her back toward him. "We'll play spy on the jailers later. We can draw straws to see who gets to be the jailer."

"You always cheat."

"I just always win, there's a difference."

They were silent a bit, as Anders picked the lock on the dividing gate. One couldn't magic it, but a pair of nimble fingers could open it easily. Sometimes templars were blinded by their own prejudiced opinions. Once back in view of the courtyard, he breathed easier. It was thrilling, these little outings with Auria. Yet at the same time a part of him dreaded them. He'd passed his Harrowing, years ago now. She had yet to even been reviewed for one. If something went wrong, they could still change her, unmake her. Turn her Tranquil.

Many things led to him turn away from the way he was raised, from that firm belief in Andraste and that all things happened for a reason. But the one critical point that made him truly doubt the good in the world happened when he was fifteen. It'd been right after his third escape attempt, and in warning they told him what could be done to him, if he didn't behave. He hadn't really believed them. A Tranquil couldn't have been a normal person. They must've always been like that, born like that. So he'd snuck in, spied on them when he heard a rumor that one of the apprentices was "being turned". Watching a young mage change from a man into one of the Tranquil had been the scariest moment of his life. Worse even than his first capture. He hadn't tried to escape again until after he'd passed his Harrowing, that fear of being unmade even greater than his hatred of being caged.

"You go in first," he nodded to her, "before anyone else comes out."

"I'll see you tonight?"

He smiled, "I'll have the straws."

.~.~.~.~.

Later, in the darkened room, he lay with Auria snuggled against one side and the small kitten against the other. It was quiet, except for the low purr of the cat, and a wheezing snore from a mage in the next bed. Anders' sleeping spells had gotten quite a workout since Auria had come calling in the middle of the night.

"When will you leave? Soon?" her voice was soft, head pillowed on his chest.

"I don't know. Maybe I won't, maybe I'll stay here forever and we'll become two old mages hobbling around the Circle looking for cats to feed," he replied, absentmindedly stroking her hair.

"What? Bite your tongue, we won't need any other kitty but this one!" She reached out to stroke the kitten.

"You won't even give him a name, and you're mad I'm thinking of other cats? Delirious, that's what you are. Are you sure being out in the sun today didn't cook your brain? Just let me know if you need a bit of healing."

"You're the one who'll need healing," she grumbled, "I'm serious. Do you think you'll leave soon?"

"If they keep tasking us with learning history, I will. What proper mage needs to learn history? Or spells even? They should just teach us how to walk in circles, and moo politely."

"You seemed to know the guards schedule pretty well," she said, ignoring him.

He sighed, and rested his lips against the top of her forehead. After a moment he answered her, "I don't know, Auria. I don't have any plans as yet."

"You'll let me know, when you do?"

"You'll be the first person to know, after myself, of course," he said lightly. "Now, sleep."

"I can't sleep here, you know that." She extracted herself from his arms.

"Do you want to take the cat?"

He heard her sigh softly, and fingers brushed through his hair.

"No, you keep him tonight. I'll see you tomorrow."

Anders rolled to his side, snugging the cat, and fell asleep.

* * *

_Vigil's Keep, Amaranthine_

He hadn't quite broken his promise. It had been a little more than a month later that he'd left. And technically, she would've been the first person (other than himself) to know he'd escaped. She always came looking for him after breakfast, and no one else would notice he was gone until at least third bell. Still, he'd never liked picturing her face when she found him missing. She probably looked much the same as she did right now, standing across from him with that inscrutable expression on her face.

His smiled faltered a little. It was also very similar to the way she'd looked the last time he'd seen her, when Rylock brought him back from that escape. He'd looked away from her gaze then. That one action told her he was guilty more than anything the templars could've said. He knew better now, though. He was older, wiser. Always look them in the eye, especially if you're lying or you want them to trust you. If you want them to think you're lying… well, then look away. Had worked like a charm over the years.

So he faced her directly, as if she were just another woman to catch him in a bad spot. He knew how to play that out.

"I know what they've been saying about me, but this? Not my doing. Don't get me wrong, I'm not broken up about them dying to be perfectly honest. Bif there made the funniest gurgle when he went down," he gave a rakish smile to Auria, wondering if she'd remember the joke, from that other life they'd had. He wanted to laugh about it now, share the joke with a knowing look and a wink. But Auria just regarded him, expressionless.

How much war and death had she gone through in the years since he'd seen her? There was no laughter in her eyes now, and her body was lean and lithe, lightly corded with muscle. Looking at her, staff in hand and sword strapped to her back, he could hardly imagine the young round-faced girl that had first come to him that lazy afternoon in the tower. He remembered the soft weight of her body on his, the silky smoothness of her hair trailing across his skin, how they had laughed almost as much as they had made love. She had been like a kitten then, playful, exuberant, as likely to bite and scratch as she was to purr, but so soft and cuddly.

She'd had surprised him, that afternoon. She'd surprised him just about every day afterwards, with her words, her wit and with the pleasure she could pull from his body. He'd had other mage lovers before, but not one so playful and ready to push the limits of their spell knowledge, both in and out of the bed. One afternoon as they lay twined together in an upper room, the kitten curled in a nook between them, they'd practiced breathing. Only it had been more than breathing. She'd released her breath into him, and then he into her, back and forth. With each breath, a little bit of power. Until the ebb and flow of power between them was like the ocean tides receding and flooding back again. He'd never felt anything so peaceful and yet so intimate.

He'd found himself unexpectedly in love with her, something he could admit now, but never would then. It was one of the reasons he'd left, if he was honest with himself, which he tried never to be.

That cute kitten was gone. She was still all feline, but her body held a deadly grace now, and her eyes tracked like a hunter. He felt himself pinned by that gaze, and heat raced through his body. He was glad his healing finesse had improved enough to control blood flow, or this could've been embarrassing.

"So you killed these darkspawn yourself?" Auria spoke for the first time, interrupting his thoughts.

"Of course!" How many of those rumors had she believed, that she could ask him that? He shrugged it off, trying to keep his tone light and the bitterness out of his voice, "Well, they helped, a little, before they tragically died."

"Not too fond of them, huh?" Auria took a step toward him, an emotion flickering in her eyes too quickly for him to catch.

"Oh, I know, I know, most people enjoy being kicked in the head to be woken up. Me, I'm just so picky." Now he was sure of it, there was a tiny flash of smile. He bowed slightly, gesturing at himself, trying to hide the rush of emotions that one small smile brought out in him.

"You may call me Anders, my dear lady," he quirked a smile at her, recovering himself, "I am a mage, and sadly, a wanted apostate."

Their shared glance was broken by the armor-clad woman's exclamation, "An apostate? At Vigil's Keep?"

"You weren't here when we arrived," he stepped towards her, with a sly glance in Auria's direction, "I'm sure I would've remembered such a lovely woman such as yourself."

The woman's eyes reflected no answering smile, only showing horror at the thought of an apostate in her hallowed hall. Anders turned away from both of them, but caught a small headshake and almost indiscernible laugh from Auria. So she did still have a sense of humor, under all that controlled finesse. He continued, "We were just stopping here on the way back to the tower, just a short rest, they said, and now they're dead, such a shame."

Anger flared in him for a moment, both at himself and the dead men strewn across the floor in front of him. It had been such a stupid bit of bad luck. How as he to know the tavern he was walking into for a drink and a bit of gambling was a favorite spot of the local templars? He hadn't even known there _were_ local templars in such a small town, let alone that they'd recognize him. He'd opened the door, smiled at the barmaid (and gotten a saucy wink back), and then walked right into the armored chest of a large man. He'd looked up, and then there he was, clapped in leg irons with a messenger scurrying away to bring the good news to Rylock. Anders frowned down at the corpses. It was enough to make a man give up drinking. Almost.

"Those men were templars?"

"So they kept saying. Although, come to think of it, there's no real way to know for sure, is there?" He glanced over his shoulder at her. They both knew what she was really asking, and they both knew the answer. More templars would be coming, Rylock among them.

His brows drew together as he continued, "The templars captured me and were taking me back. And then you know, Darkspawn attacked. Could be a sign, yes?"

A sign of what, he wasn't sure. A sign from his forsaken Andraste that he'd found Auria again? A sign that he should flee while he still could? A sign that both their lives had been infested by darkspawn? What did it mean? He for one sure couldn't figure it out. He couldn't even figure out how that laughing girl who had literally electrified his small clothes and single handedly thought up a spell that would burn just one thread out of a garment was not only alive and a length away from him, but also the Commander of the Grey Wardens. How did things like that happen?

She'd always been powerful, with a knack for spell combining. He never could manage that refined burning spell she'd devised. She would slowly burn one thread until the whole piece collapsed in a pile of smoking ash and untouched thread. When he tried it, the spell had come to the end of a thread and starting sparking, lighting the whole robe on fire. It might've ended poorly, if the poor sod whose clothes were burning hadn't been so caught up in saying his prayers. It had tested the casting distance of Auria's cold spell and both the distance and delicacy of his healing spells, but there was no lasting damage. The acolyte probably chalked it up to the mysteries of Andraste. Maker knew, he did often enough. He was standing in one of her blightsworn mysteries right now.

Out of the corner of his eye, he could see when Auria turned from the dead Templars to face him. He didn't turn around. His heart was hammering harder than it should. It was just the threat of darkspawn, he told himself. Not the fact that she was standing right behind him, alive and more tantalizing than ever. Maybe she had forgiven him, after all these years. Maybe if he just turned around – he knew how to fight; these years hadn't been kind to him, either. They could battle darkspawn side by side, and then at night… but no. She was the king's mistress, and he was a wanted apostate.

"Perhaps," Auria's voice quavered, and died. The moment stretched, and Anders wondered if her mind had followed the same path as his, and what conclusion she had reached. "You better get out of here, then," she said, answering that question for him.

"I'll just slip out the way you came, good luck to you then," he said, trying to keep his voice light, knowing that he failed. He couldn't turn to face her, not now. "Have fun slaughtering the darkspawn, Maker knows they could use it."


	3. Chapter 3

**Author's Note: ** This chapter is definitely rated M, for a little nighttime scene between Surana and Anders.

And also, as always, thanks to Bioware for letting me borrow their setting, characters and game story.

* * *

_Vigil's Keep, Amaranthine_

Anders slipped out of the door, not turning to look at Auria. At least she was alive, and he was free. Those were the important things, right?

He kept reminding himself of that as he made his way to the courtyard. There were slaughtered men and darkspawn everywhere, and more than one of them shattered from a cold spell. She'd gotten much stronger and much more precise since the last time he'd sparred with her. He certainly wouldn't want to go up against her offensive powers now. And that sword on her back… he'd heard rumors of arcane warriors, but they were myth, weren't they?

Anders talents lay in healing, they always had. It was that strength that led him now to the wounded men along the wall. He did what he could for them, hoping the taint hadn't spread or infected their wounds. There was nothing he could do for that, as he'd sadly found out in the past years. Too often he'd had to stand by, helpless, as someone else gave them a quick death. He'd never been able to wield the blade himself, but he still felt the weight of their deaths on him.

He wondered briefly what happened to the leader of that little outlaw brigade he'd joined up with after his last escape. She'd hidden him from templars in return for his service, and helped him find passage to the Free Marches before they'd left for the south. Anders smiled. She'd also been quite the spitfire, and terribly attractive, despite that scar running the length of her side.

"Umm… I feel much better now, are you… finished?"

"What?" Anders looked down, realizing he'd been holding his staff over the young man's head for an unconscionably long time. "Ahh… yes. I could wave it around a few more times if you wanted a bit of a lie down. No? Well then, up you..."

A flash of lightning illuminated the sky, followed immediately by a great boom of thunder. They all stopped, looking up to the battlements standing tall and menacing before them. As the flare subsided, Anders could see the outlines of figures fighting near the ballistae. He knew he shouldn't be able to, but he heard the clang of steel against steel as swords and shields clashed, and the warrior cry of a woman as she bashed a hulking creature in front of her. Light flashed again, but this time it was the cold white light of a frost spell. A huge piece of ice clattered down, shattering on the cobblestones below.

Anders felt himself suddenly racing back into the Keep, taking the steps two by two. Who did she think she was, anyway, telling him to get out of there? She hadn't even passed her harrowing last time he saw her, and she was telling _him _what he should be doing? There were two of them up there and a whole castle full of darkspawn. She may be good, he'd give her that, saving the country from a blight and all, but she needed him. He'd show her good. What did she think he'd been doing all this time, drinking ale in brothels and knitting with a cat on his lap in his spare time? Given, those were two of his favorite occupations, but still!

He stopped at the next landing to catch his breath, listening for the sounds of fighting. The battle sounded like it was still a floor up, muffled and distant. He climbed up another flight of stairs and found himself at a doorway. He opened it slowly, wincing as it gave a loud creak. It led out onto a flat rooftop. Someone was speaking nearby. He flattened himself against the wall. The voice was strange, guttural with an odd inflection. It made his skin crawl. Creeping silently closer, he chanced a quick peek in their direction. It was a darkspawn. And it was talking. Darkspawn weren't supposed to talk. He guessed no one had bothered to tell this one that.

Rain pelted down, soaking him to the skin. He hated being wet, it felt so… wet. And cold. Where was Auria, anyway? Shouldn't she be up here already? He wouldn't mind seeing her in the rain, with her robes all… clinging. Wet could be good, he reasoned.

The rooftop had gone quiet. Maybe he could risk another glance around the corner… Yep, still there. The huge one in the chain mail hood seemed to be issuing commands. Did darkspawn usually have leaders? They'd just seemed to amass before, with no real battle plan but to kill. What sort of darkspawn attacked a Keep full of Grey Wardens? And why was the big one just standing there, staring out over the battlements? He inched back down the wall. Probably not the best idea to get too close. A blast of fire might just make this one angry.

Auria should be here already. Maybe he should go back down and try to find her. If he had known she was alive… What would he have done? Try to find her? Would it really have made a difference? 'Yes, hi there, I know we didn't leave things in the best way and you're with the King there and all, and that must be pretty great, but wouldn't you rather have a penniless apostate instead?' He was sure that would've gone over great. And would he have really sought her out at all? Or just run?

He didn't know the answer to that. Things were too complicated, and he never did well with complicated. He'd have to explain, and demand she explain, and then she'd tell him why… and he didn't really want to know. Admittedly, he sometimes wondered what things would be like, if he'd never left her behind. If somehow, miraculously, they'd escaped together. Mostly, in the dead of night, he wondered if she would have stayed with him, and what it would've been like if they'd had some little cottage together, somewhere off… but where, he couldn't imagine. And it really didn't matter, did it? In the end he hadn't escaped with her, he'd just left.

* * *

_Circle Tower, Lake Calenhad_

She had come to him in the middle of the night, like a warm cat stealing into his bed. Only he was the one that purred, and pulled her closer, his mouth finding hers in the dark.

"You're a very bad girl, sneaking into my rooms like this," he whispered, when their mouths parted. "What would Irving say?" his lips slid to her ear, words low and husky against her. He felt her body shiver and then arch slightly against him in response, her fingers sliding up to curl into his hair.

"Oh, I think he would be very impressed with the practice we're getting… with our spells." Auria tilted her head, giving him full access to the long, smooth column of her throat. His lips brushed her skin, barely touching.

"Are you saying you already had your wily ways with my roommates, here? You don't leave me anything fun to do." A groan slipped from him, as her hips pressed to his. His teeth grazed her neck as he slid his hands down the curve of her body, slowly tugging up the thin linen shift she wore.

"They're having very sweet dreams," she giggled softly as his hands caught in the fabric. Leaning back she freed herself of the night dress. It left her bare from the waist up, and Anders found it hard to concentrate on what she was saying. "I doubt they'll wake until morning. I really _have_ been practicing, you know."

"Mmmm, I know," he said, hands skating over her body, eliciting small gasps from her every place he touched. Finally his hands settled at the back of her thighs, finding the line where underthings met skin. Her skin was so soft. He lightly drew his fingers back and forth along the seam, tracing from thigh to the small of her back. She rocked under his hand and he lifted his mouth to find a bare breast. He couldn't believe how sweet she tasted in his mouth. Her skin tasted of honey. Now it was her turn to moan, and she pushed his shoulders back, trying to capture his mouth with her own.

His head hit the back of the wall and he winced, drawing back. His mind suddenly working, he eluded her as she tried to kiss him again, instead brushing his cheek against hers. Pulling away slightly, he weaved a line of hot kisses to her collarbone.

"What of the templar at the end of the hall?" he found himself asking.

She groaned in frustration, and pinned him down to the mattress. Anders gave a quick intake of breath as she straddled him, his linen robe and her thin underclothes the only barrier between them.

"You worry too much." Her eyes were catlike in the dark, and he could just barely see the smile playing about her lips. What did she turn him into, that _he_ was the one to worry too much? They'd almost been caught several times when they first began these nightly assignations. As a healer, he had a little more freedom in his illicit affairs. The stronger the healer, the greater the liberties. Nobility would pay a pretty penny for his skills. They also trusted healers to stop any… inconvenient outcomes from these rendezvous'. The men, at least. He'd heard it was much harder for female mages. Even so, there was only so much the templars would put up with. Auria was taking greater and greater risk.

"And you are a devil-woman," his voice came out hoarsely, as she slowly circled her hips on top of him, the material separating them making rough sounds in the quiet room. He slid his hands up her sides, grazing teasingly over her breasts, and then slipped his arms around her back. He flipped them over neatly, this time pressing her back into the thin mattress. She made a soft satisfied sound, arms twisting around his neck.

"What of the templar?" he questioned again, mouth hovering above hers. He couldn't let it go. A few months ago he'd found her practicing combination spells on templars. Most templars couldn't be directly affected by a spell, but you could find ways to get around that. Auria had been practicing setting a tiny bit of brush on fire, and then as the magical fire went out, a real fire sprung up. Several templars had been burned. He hadn't liked the direction she was taking. Recently, she'd begun magicking the templars food, with varying results.

"Fine," she sighed, now running her hands down his back, gathering his robe up. "The templars were getting cake tonight. They always get dessert, and we get nothing! Serves them right."

He ducked his head as the robe came off. Making a purring sound, Auria ran her hands over his bare chest. He slid his fingers through hers, and pressed them back into the pillow. His teeth nipped her ear.

"And?"

"Nothing really…" she squirmed beneath him, "there was just a little sleep spell woven into the eggs. Eggs are a great medium."

"Auria..." He wrapped her in his arms, turning them both on their sides. "Anyone could've eaten those eggs. What if they did more than make people sleep? If someone got hurt, or if the templars realized someone was tampering with their food…"

"They're fine. It's fine. No one is going to get hurt, and we can be together…" her voice trailed off as she brushed her parted lips against his. She pressed small kisses from one corner to the other, and then pulled at his bottom lip with both of hers.

"It's fine," she breathed again, now moving slowly against him.

He could feel the heat and the need building between them, her barely clothed body twined around him. She was setting off little sparks of heat and current, building the power around them. He slid his fingers into her hair and held her head, covering her mouth with his own. She groaned into him, kissing with a fierce hunger that turned his blood to fire. Mouths hot they twisted together, fighting for ascendancy on his narrow mattress.

An overriding desire filled him, and pressed her back, tugging at her smallclothes. She squirmed under him, trying to help kick them down. His mouth found hers again, as her fingers gripped him, guiding him inside. Thought left him. There was nothing, nothing but this. Skin against skin in a gasping, rhythmic world of hot, sweet mouths and straining bodies. Somewhere, in the back of his mind, he heard her moan, heard her voice against his ear, heard her whisper, "I love you."

.~.~.~.~.

"I'm caught," she laughed against his chest, "my leg…" She tried kicking it back and forth, but she was trapped, immobile.

It was deep in the night, and they lay, sweaty and sated, bodies still pressed together. At some point the bedclothes had wrapped around them, and now held her leg tighter than any rope.

Anders snickered. "Hmm… to free you, or not to free you…"

Eying him wickedly, Auria slid her hand up his thigh, fingers curling around him. "Oh, I think you want to free me," she laughed low and throaty, her hand squeezing.

"Mmm... yes, you do have a point." Anders surveyed her, as if in thought. "Although…"

"Please, pretty please?"

"Never say I didn't do anything for you," he said as she released him, and he stood to free her from the sheets.

Once free, she stood also and reached for her robes. Anders felt a small ping of disappointment. Usually she stayed longer. But instead of dressing, she took something from her pocket and came back to the bed, leaning into him.

"What's that?"

"It's… you'll think I'm silly." She hid her face for a moment in his neck.

He found her so captivating when she was shy. It seldom happened. She seemed to know just want she wanted, and had no problem organizing those around her to follow her lead. But there were times like this, when he could see the self-doubt she always hid, and her sweet nature was so clear. It was all he could do not to squeeze her against him.

"You, silly? Never."

"It's… here." She pressed something into his hand. A stone. No, a leaf. A stone carved into a leaf, he could feel the exquisite detail under his fingertips.

"For me?" He took it doubtfully. She'd given him a stone leaf?

"It's shaped like a leaf from the tree, in the garden. The one we… under…," she hesitated. "I made it. It's for you, for our six month anniversary." When he still didn't say anything, she continued, "It's been six months today."

A silence stretched out between them a little too long, like some yawning crevasse.

"Thank you," he paused, "I didn't… I don't have anything to give you in return."

Six months. It couldn't have been six months. He'd been planning to leave for… 2 months now? He'd had an escape route, knew the spells, had the timing down. He even knew the stops of _The Siren's Call_, and where to look for the captain once he escaped – courtesy of a very friendly woman, who often came to deliver goods to the Circle. It couldn't have been six months. Worse, had she been expecting him to keep track of the dates?

Auria was watching him now, her eyes large and bright in the darkness. He turned away from the emotion in them, instead kissing her cheek, and then her mouth. He let the kiss linger, soft and slow. She sighed and settled herself against him. They lay curled up like that for quite some time, each of them quiet.

Later in the night, before padding quietly off to her own room, she'd kissed him again. She'd tasted a little salty, and had hugged him close to her before letting go. The sleep spell on his roommates still held, and by all rights he should've fallen fast asleep by the time the door closed. But he didn't. He'd stayed awake the rest of the night, turning that leaf over and over in his hand, and tasting the salt on his lips.

He'd left the next day.


	4. Chapter 4

_Circle Tower, Lake Calenhad_

It hadn't been a conscious plan, to leave like he did. But the next morning, the weight of her trinket heavy around his neck, it just seemed a good as time as any. He'd felt a stab of guilt – hadn't he promised to tell her before he left? But he quickly quashed it. They hadn't made any real promises, and most likely she _would _be the first to know. At least, she'd be the first to notice. He hoped she didn't give him away. It took time for them to dig out his phylactery from wherever it was they kept it. Not on the premises, he was sure of that. He had at least six days of good travel time, he figured.

The brothel wasn't hard to find. A tip to the local street urchin, and he was directed straight there. He imagined the boy, or girl, it was hard to tell at that age, would get a separate tip for bringing him in. The place was clean, which was more than he could say for many establishments he'd visited, and there were tables in a nook to the side. A woman leaned back in a chair at one of the tables, dual swords at her hips and a flagon of mead in her hand.

Several hours later, and much less sober, Anders let out a sigh and turned his cards over on the table.

"I win, again," she laughed, standing up and coming around the table towards him. She liked to take her winnings with her own two hands, she'd declared when they first began the game. He'd no idea how literal she'd been when she'd said that.

"You have me at quite the disadvantage, my lady, I'm afraid I'll only have one item left to bargain with." He stood up reluctantly, undoing the button to his trousers himself, before she could.

"Oh no, I think you have more than that," she smiled as her hands tugged his pants down, leaving him in just his small clothes. He was heartily glad he'd changed from robes into merchant's garb, or he would've lost this game long ago.

"One more hand and you will leave me shivering in the cold, and that is not the state I work best in," he replied, "Give me leave to board your ship, while I'm still of good use to you. I'm very handy, out in the open sea."

"I'm sure you are," her smile was predatory, "one more game, and I'll see about you… boarding my ship." She gave his pants to the burly man standing behind her, and sat back down to deal out the next hand of cards.

He could see her sleight of hand, but with the way her bodyguard stared at him and his urgent desire to gain passage aboard her ship, he said nothing about it. He could usually win easily with just a disorient spell and some quick fingerwork, but she was a master of the game. She was also quite attractive, in a feral sun-browned sort of way. He felt a quick stab of guilt and pushed it away. Auria always knew he was going to leave, and they had never made any real promises to one another. She knew his past. Still, he couldn't help comparing the calloused touch of the pirate woman to Auria's soft, small hands. Or her bright, witty smile to this woman's knowing, cynical glance. The small leather pouch around his neck felt weighted, and he had a sudden fear of it dragging him to the bottom of the sea after he left with this piratess.

"And I win again," she clapped her hands, "Oh, you are so lovely to play with, my darling. Now for my prize."

He should be happy about this, he reminded himself as she pressed behind him. She was tall, nearly the same height as him, and her lips easily reached his ear. He could tuck Auria's head under his chin when he held her.

"You may board my ship tonight, my lovely, and what she will teach you." Her teeth nipped his earlobe before a breathy whisper tickled his ear, sending a shock down his spine, "She will guide you with her sighs... her shudders, her gentle swaying as she rides the crests of the waves. You will come to know her… most… intimately. If you're as good as you say."

She moved to face him, "I'll take my goods, now." She stripped him of his last piece of clothing, her hands lingering a little too long. She leaned close, mouth to his ear, "'hot spiced sugarcake', remember, that's the password for tonight." He felt the response of his own body. Her hands and the whispered promise of dark nights causing a reaction he couldn't quite hide, not when he was standing barearsed in a brothel. Damn, but he was going to have to practice mastering that.

She laughed delightedly, as she walked away from him. "Well, that was one thing you certainly did not exaggerate. Maybe I'll just call you Mast, if you keep refusing to give me your name."

The door swung shut behind her, and like a beehive opening the giggling girls of the brothel poured in, surrounding him like bees to honey. They were tugging and pulling and exclaiming over him, marveling at his long, nimble fingers and the scent of herbs that rose from his skin. One said she had some clothing that he could wear, so he let them drag him into the backroom, enjoying the giggling and the fuss, although that combined with their half-naked attire was doing nothing to lower his previous reaction.

They giggled over his condition, and made some very pretty offers he turned down in good humor. He wasn't quite sure why he did. He should've taken them all up on it, together. The girls had seen nothing but sweaty sailors for days, and were quite intrigued by his cleanliness, more than anything. He knew what waited for him aboard ship tonight, but he was quite positive he could satisfy everyone; after all, he was a mage, wasn't he? What good were healing spells if he couldn't replenish his own body?

"Clothes, my lovely girls, you promised me clothes. I don't think your mistress would be too happy when she found I'd already lost my last coin."

One girl had eyes the color of Auria's with small pointed ears peaking through her long hair. He turned away from her to face the door, just as it burst open.

Anders jumped, ready with a speech, expecting an angry proprietress. But no, it was Rylock standing there, furious. She held the little street urchin by the neck in one hand, and her sword in her other.

"Did you sell this child into slavery here?" She demanded, squeezing the poor thing's neck.

"Ahh..no," Anders stammered, taken aback. "No, I didn't," he stepped forward as if to take the child from her, but she pointed her sword his way. He raised his hands. "I only tipped her for showing me the way."

"Liar! You sold her to by passage on a pirate ship, with another whore! And here you are, standing bare as the Maker made you, in front of four young girls! You may think them just harlots, you degenerate ill-born apostate, but they were once some mother's daughters and brother's sisters before they were whores to the likes of you. You shame yourself and shame all of us on this day." She gave the child a final shake, and let her go.

Anders looked wildly around. At least she'd released the little street urchin, who was now running for her (her!) life down the hall. There were no windows and no other doors in this room. He tried to quiet the girls around him; their giggling had turned to tears, and he knew soon it would turn to sobs. He tried for a soothing healing spell before Rylock could lock him down, but the cleanse spell she set off nearly knocked out his teeth.

"I just want to help them, you scared them!" He gasped, coming to his feet. He wondered if she'd mixed a little smite into that, it would be like her.

"You should've thought of that before, boy, you're the one that's caused all this mess. Throw something over yourself, I can't look at you when you're standing there like that," her voice dripped with disgust.

Anders looked down. Well, at least his mast wasn't at attention anymore. Rylock was one surefire way to fix that. He picked up clothes from among the girls, whispering little bits of encouragement, "I think you're lovely, don't listen to her", and, "You may be a vixen and a saucy minx, but you're no man's whore" and "What's she know, she probably doesn't even remember that her legs open". The last girl giggled at that one, and gave him a smile. He kissed each of their cheeks and slipped into the borrowed clothing, his heart lurching. He was going back. Auria.

How Auria would look at him now. Maker take it! So maybe he hadn't told her he was leaving, but she must've been the first one to know. She may think she knew him, knew why he was running, and had some grand idealistic notion of what 'freedom' meant, but life wasn't like that. She couldn't orchestrate him. He just didn't want to be caged up with a bunch of hypocritical liars and prison guards, no matter what else they named themselves. And she couldn't blame him for taking pleasure where he found it, hadn't she said that very same thing on their first afternoon together?

Doubt nagged at him. She'd encouraged him to escape, but she'd wanted to plan it together – had urged him to be logical instead of just taking chance when chance arose. That right there proved she didn't know him at all. There was something niggling at him, though. Something that just now occurred to him. She had wanted to be involved with his plans, wanted to know when he would escape. Had she actually wanted to escape with him?

One hot afternoon, when most apprentices set to practicing frost spells, and most others not wanting to leave the cooled floor being practiced upon, he and Auria had snuck out to practice grease traps on the stairway. He'd thought they'd catch a hapless instructor, or maybe some of those prissy apprentices who always gave him disapproving looks. Instead, they had (luckily or unluckily) caught a group of newly assigned templars. Instead of watching their step, they had been grumbling about the heat and their armor. The first man took a step onto the grease-laden stair. He bobbled there for a moment, seeming to hang in the air. Then, one good slip, and the whole lot of them had thumped and bumped their way down to lay stunned at the bottom of the stairs.

They had snickered delightedly from their hiding spot.

"The new ones are just so much fun!" Auria had exclaimed, wiping tears from her eyes. "Oh, what we could do with our combined magics… they wouldn't stand a chance. We could do anything." Her eyes were bright, lit with laughter and excitement, and he had kissed her, not really listening to her words.

He and Auria hadn't been caught; instead the entire apprentice hall was made to clean floors for a week, without using magic. It'd been worth it though, just to see the templars crash down the stairs and then struggle to get up, like beetles turned onto their backs, sounds of incoherent fury echoing up the stairwell.

Her words came back to him now, as Rylock clamped him in leg irons. Had the young templars been an accident? Or had she known they would be there, and wanted to practice? Their combined magics… anything… Had she meant to escape?

"Your little hussy gave you away," Rylock said, jerking him out the door, and into a waiting cart. "She chose rightly, taking the Maker's justice in penance for her crime."

"Wh..What?" Anders stumbled over his words. She couldn't have. She would never. "You didn't… she's not… Tranquil, is she?"

"What?" Rylock yanked his hands over his head, clamping his chain to the top of the cart. "Even you should know we can't turn a peddler into a Tranquil. Which they should've done to you, if they'd listened to me."

"Oh." Anders mind was racing. A peddler? She must mean the woman who brought the staples over once a month. The one who'd given him the directions to meet the pirate, and had helped smuggle him out of the district, once he got across the lake. He thought furiously, had he ever told her how he got across the lake? Mages were not taught to swim. In fact, as children they were often tossed in the water in their robes and heavy boots, and dragged out just before drowning. It gave most an instinctive fear of the water. But Anders' mother had taught him to swim almost before he could walk, and his nan taught him to turn his healing inward, slowing the need for oxygen. They never quite said why, but he'd eventually figured out the reason they were so insistent - on that and so many other things.

His breath eased. He hadn't given away the secret of it, but he wondered how much his escape had cost her. It couldn't be helped now. He hoped whatever the Maker's justice was, it went easy on her.

.~.~.~.~.

Two days later they'd pulled up to the docks on Lake Calenhad. The ferryman shook his head as they pulled Anders out of the cart, tsking and muttering under his breath the whole way across the lake.

"Selling girls into slavery, it's not right. Should make him one of them Tranquil, if you ask me."

Finally, tired and sore and thinking of what awaited him at the circle, he shot out, "Well, it's a good thing it's not up to you, or me, because if it were up to me, I'd make you into a toad. Then you could croak away like nature intended."

Rylock reached out and knocked him across the head, not caring that her hand was encased in a heavy iron gauntlet. No, Anders thought, she probably took satisfaction that her hand was armored. Spiteful harpy.

Anders pressed his manacled hands to his ringing head, wishing he could send a little healing magic into it. Rylock smiled over at him, and he knew he wouldn't be able to cast any sort of spell until he was well away from her. His heart sank as they pulled up to the Circle dock. Even the groundsmen were shooting him dark looks. Zings of pain stung him from a pelting of small stones as he crossed into the courtyard.

He felt dirty, the rumors and truths and lies coating him like muck on a stagnant pond. He stumbled and fell, the leg irons tripping him. Rylock yanked him to his feet, as he grimaced and tried to spit out dust. The large door to the tower opened, and he was dragged from the bright sunshine.

It took a few moments for his eyes to adjust, and then he could see both Irving and Greagoir standing in front of him. He looked away from Irving's eyes.

"I found him in a whorehouse," Rylock made a salute to Greagoir, with a bare acknowledgment of Irving. "He was caught in the act of using several under-age prostitutes, and had no clothing on. I had to order him to dress himself, and he tried to continue his use of the girls even as I watched. It was obvious he'd used some sort of dark magic on them. Most damning of all, he'd tried to buy passage on a ship by selling a young girl into slavery. I found this girl, and she made a full confession and thanked me as her savior. That ship is known to smuggle girls, and sell such women into slavery as whores. And finally, the proprietor of the establishment told me that Anders himself was going to whore himself in the pirate's bed in return for her silence."

Rylock's voice had been rising the whole time with a righteous anger, and Anders had a sudden clear understanding that she truly believed everything she just said.

He glanced around. Slowly, the room had filled with templars and mages, even the small children not yet considered apprentices. Auria? Was she here? He felt a strange, elated relief that he would see her again. He searched the crowd, eyes flicking from face to face. They were all scowling at him; some of the women looked horrified. They couldn't believe Rylock, could they? Yes, he'd been found in a brothel, and yes, he hadn't had clothes on, but that was the extent of it.

"Irving, I didn't…" he began, but Greagoir lifted his hand.

"Were you found in this whorehouse?"

Anders eyes flicked from Greagoir to the crowd surrounding them. Where was Auria? Had they done something to her?

"Answer him!" Rylock shook his chains.

"Yes, but…"

"And were you found, without your clothes, in the company of underage prostitutes?"

"It's not what it sounds like…"

"Did you sell a young child in to slavery for your own selfish devices?" Greagoir's voice thundered around him.

"NO!"

"Do you deny that you were to sail, that very night, on a pirate ship?"

"No, but..."

"No, you don't deny it?"

"Yes, I was going aboard ship, but no I never…"

"And you were going to sell your own body to a pirate, for cooperation?"

"A female pirate!" he exclaimed, then, "No…but, not sell, it wasn't…" His eyes finally found Auria's in the crowd. He'd never seen her look so sad, he could see tears in her eyes, her eyebrows drawn together.

"It wasn't like that," he finished lamely. They were all staring at him. Auria mouthed a question, pushing her way to the front, but he couldn't tell what it was. She was trying to tell him something, her eyes imploring.

"Rylock is twisting the truth, I'm not guilty," he said, talking directly to Auria. Then the thought of calloused, knowing fingers sliding inside his trousers came to his mind, how her breath had been hot in his ear, her promises of nights to come dark and thrilling. His voice faltered, and he looked away from Auria's eyes, unable to meet her gaze. When he looked back up her eyes had gone unresponsive, unreadable.

"So Rylock, one of our most trusted and decorated templars, is lying?" Greagoir's voice was soft and deadly.

"Well… umm… yes." He continued quickly, as Greagoir took a step towards him, "partly at least. More like twisting the truth to sound worse than it is. Maybe she just is really really pessimistic? Umm, Ser, Commander, Ser." He caught Auria's eye, and risked a quick wink and quirk of his lips, but she just looked at him.

Irving spoke, for the first time, his voice serious, "Anders. I don't believe you sold another person into slavery, being that you are so determined to find your own. But these other charges are very serious, in and of themselves. Do you deny that you, of your own free will, were found unclothed, among prostitutes, bound for a ship on which you would be trading your own body for secrecy?"

He glanced between Irving and Auria. She'd pushed ahead of some templars and now stood only a length away from him. Even now, with tears streaking her cheeks and her eyes stony, she looked beautiful to him.

"It… umm… well," he cleared his voice, "It wasn't really a trade, per se. It was more like… a mutual understanding for mutual benefits." He made a small shrug in Auria's direction. "I don't really see anything so bad, to be honest. Everyone here's found a little bit of distraction in the night. Mostly." he paused, and shot a look at Rylock. "And I never touched the girls in the brothel. I'd just… lost my clothes, and they were helping me."

Irving turned to Greagoir and they murmured together in low tones. He hesitated to look back to Auria. She couldn't blame him, he'd done nothing wrong. He hadn't even expected to see her again. She had no right to hold him accountable to any of her high ideals. He didn't owe her anything. Then why did he feel so guilty? And why was he absurdly relieved that Rylock hadn't taken the trinket from around his neck? He felt a surge of emotion as he looked across to her face.

Anders met Auria's glance at last. She said something, something he could almost hear. He shook his head, shrugging. She mouthed the words this time, and he smiled. That obviously had been the wrong response, he thought, as her eyes narrowed. He imagined all the things she could be saying, none of them good. What could he say?

"I'm sorry," he mouthed back to her.

Her face went flat, inscrutable. Then he watched as she turned and walked away from him.

He didn't hear as Greagoir read out his sentence. She had left the room. She had actually left the room. How could she have turned away like that?

Rylock's glare bored into the back of his head. He grimaced at her, and she flashed her teeth. What was she so happy about? So maybe he'd get a little solitary confinement, a couple weeks, he could handle that.

But Rylock jostled his elbow, crowing, "Did you hear that? I get to carry out your flogging, and its three months of confinement for you!"

* * *

_Vigil's Keep, Amaranthine_

Thunder cracked around him, the rain pelting like sharp stones, as Anders mind shied away from that memory. They'd used cleansing spells repeatedly, and he hadn't been able to heal himself until Rylock was through. They'd dumped him into confinement without even letting him bathe. The solitary confinement wouldn't have been so bad if he hadn't hoped every day that Auria would find a way to visit him. She never did, though. The kitten did. He'd grown into a full-sized hunter.

Anders was never sure how the cat made it into the room, but it almost made him willing to believe in Andraste again. Someone was obviously taking care of it. His coat was sleek, and he had a new collar. One day, a little more than a month in, the cat had opened the door. Just like that. He knew now he'd been hallucinating, but it seemed so real at the time. And the door _had_ been open, because he'd escaped. The memory was cloudy, like a dream of a dream. His next clear memory was of sputtering in the middle of the lake, inhaling water instead of air.

Eight months later they captured him again. Auria wasn't there the day they brought him back. No one had been, not even Irving. Only Rylock and Greagoir, and a cell at the bottom of the Tower he'd never known existed before.

"Noooooo!" A wail echoed across the rooftop as a door splintered open. "Please!"

He heard the snarl of darkspawn and men crying out in pain. People were being dragged out onto the battlement. Anders pressed himself to the wall, hardly daring to breathe. A sharp ring of steel and one of the screams was cut short. Great idea, this. Maybe next time he felt like helping, he could just hurl himself onto a waiting sword. Probably be a lot quicker.

The door burst open behind him and he spun, readying his staff. Three people ran out on to the rooftop. Three? He was supposed to be the one coming to Auria's rescue. Anders sighed. And it would have to be that blight-blasted dwarf from last night. He'd never get that scent out of his nostrils. Oh well, it wouldn't matter if they were all dead, which they were likely to be at any moment. So much for heroics.


	5. Chapter 5

_Vigil's Keep, Amaranthine_

Anders was fairly sure he'd never done anything this monumentally stupid before. Sure, he'd come close. Walking into a tavern without bothering to check if there were templars in town came to mind. But he'd never done anything quite so much like deliberately poking a rabid bear before. Usually his monumentally stupid events had more to do with pleasure, or running away from the bear, not into its slobbering mouth.

The scrabbling sound of armored boots on stone floor came from around the corner, very close to him, as some poor soul desperately dug his heels into the roof. A cry pierced the air, and then retreated, its echo disappearing into the wind. They were throwing men one by one to their deaths on the ground below. There were at least four darkspawn out there – he wasn't sure how many people were left. He bowed his head, wishing he could do something, anything.

He glanced to Auria. She had spotted him from across the rooftop, but wasn't close yet. She strode with such authority, every step an economy of movement. She'd left her outer robes somewhere in the keep, and he could see now that she was armored. There was a glimmer of a metal breastplate over toughened leathers, and what he'd assumed before was a decorative underdress was actually some sort of split fighting skirt.

His emotions roiled watching her, matching the weather whipping up around them. She'd told him to go. Had she really thought he would abandon her in a keep full of heinous creatures, just to save his own skin? That said more about her, than it did about him. She should've known him better. But what did he really expect? He hadn't really given her any reason to trust him.

A man shouted something, and there was a quick ring of steel before someone clattered heavily to the ground. Metal scraped on stone, and then someone spoke again. Anders wasn't sure if it was darkspawn or man. A growl of thunder rolled across the rooftop, muffling the exchange. He made out the words, "in charge" and, "grey wardens", before new cries went up. Auria was still halfway across the roof, but striding toward him quickly. He chanced a glance around the corner. His heart sank. There were six of them, not four, and they were throwing the rest of the men over the side, like scraps to dogs.

Saying a quick prayer, but not knowing who he said it to, Anders sent a rejuvenating spell into the next man the monsters grabbed. He followed it up with another spell, quietly infusing the soldier with strength. One of the darkspawn turned toward him, but it was too late. The soldier grasped the creature's own sword and drove it into the sinewy neck, nearly shearing off its head. The adjacent darkspawn gave a guttural roar, and hurled the man off the roof. In its haste it overbalanced on the wet, slippery roof. Another soldier broke from his captors grip and charged, sending them both wheeling over the edge.

Anders turned back, plastering himself against the wall. At least the man had taken one with him, it was a brave death. He wasn't so sure he'd be able to make that leap to certain death. Although he was here on the rooftop when he could be safely on the road. He supposed that was a leap, of sorts.

Auria was only a length away from him now. He couldn't make out the expression on her face, not through the driving rain. However, he _could_ see how the rain plastered the skirt against her hips. He tried to control the smirk of his lips before she saw him. She'd grown leaner and more muscled over the years, but it only seemed to accentuate the shapely curve of her body.

Before she could say anything, he spoke, "So, just a thought, you might want to be careful out there," he said, pointing behind him and trying to gauge her expression. Her eyes looked stormy, like the sky above them. "I think the big darkspawn who led the attack is out there." The wind chose that moment to die down, and utter silence fell across the roof. "At least he was earlier."

She faced him, crossing her arms. The rain had soaked her hair, and the wind driven it back from her face in tangled strands. He noticed a tattooed pattern across her forehead. When had she gotten that, was it something Grey Wardens did? She never had been one for frivolous adornments; she wouldn't even let him pierce her ear back at the tower. Oh, but how she'd laughed and run in mock horror when he'd chased her with the needle. His lips quirked. That night had ended quite well, he recalled.

"Couldn't take a hint the first time, I see," Auria said wryly, with just a hint of a smile.

He tried to school his face into some semblance of gravity. Men were dying, had died, just moments ago. But he couldn't shake the lightness she wrought, with just that tiny smile. It was almost enough to make a man think she was happy to see him. "I was already on the road and I thought I couldn't just leave, not yet, so I came to help and kill darkspawn," he said, unable to control his smile. "They kind of go together I heard."

"Your help is appreciated," Auria said. She made a hesitant movement, as if to step forward, but checked herself.

He knew it. She was happy, she was definitely happy to see him. An absurd sense of gratification came over him, even though they were likely to die in the next few moments. He'd been likely to die before and it hadn't happened yet. With any luck, tonight they would revel in their escape from near death together – by practicing the oldest celebration of life known to man.

"Thank me later, I'm pretty good," he said, one eyebrow lifting rakishly. He gave her his most charming smile, the one that had won him the hearts and smallclothes of many a fair maiden. "Trust me, you'll be mighty grateful I came back."

Her face turned sour, like she'd just tasted bad wine. "I'm not making any promises," she stated, her tone cutting through his rapidly growing fantasies for the evening.

Anders felt his face flush. _She_ wasn't making promises? What had he ever asked of her? She'd been the one to try and extract some sort of guarantee from him, and then gave up on him as soon as her faith was tested.

He didn't let his smile falter. "That's good, I was never much for commitment to tell you the truth," he said, his tone light, but his eyes not leaving hers.

They faced each other, the driving rain pouring around them. She gave no reaction except for a slight narrowing of her eyes and a tenseness in the purse of her mouth. The silence yawned between them, neither one of them willing to break the stare.

The dwarf, still stinking like a brewery and completely oblivious to the tension around him, grunted loudly. He leaned on his war axe, wobbling a little. "Comedian mage, that's a useful specialty I bet," he declared belligerently.

His hair was bright red, even in the gloom surrounding them and shorn off, as if he'd cut it himself. Instead of a traditional beard his sideburns flowed into a long, braided mustache, four braids hanging down on each side of his mouth. He wobbled again, and Anders wondered if he was still drunk. Probably had to shave his chin to make things easier, when he was sick from all that drink. Anders wanted to take a hot bath and fastidiously comb out his hair, just looking at the man.

"About as useful as smelling like whiskey vomit, I'd imagine," he shot back.

"Oh, he's a keeper, let's make him dance," the dwarf glared, hefting his axe.

"Perhaps we should deal with the darkspawn first, yes?" the woman warrior cut in, stepping between the two, just as another scream split the air.

Auria pushed past them all to round the corner. Anders realized she still hadn't said anything and he suddenly felt sorry for his earlier comment. Then he rounded the corner too, and all thoughts left him as he looked directly into the face of their enemy. It was a huge darkspawn, monstrous in its size and clad unlike any one he'd seen before. Its face looked more human than a normal darkspawn and somehow more terrifying, an intelligence staring at him out of those filmy, dead eyes. There were three other darkspawn on the roof. One had a grey-haired man on his knees, holding a wickedly curved blade to his throat. Anders recognized him as the seneschal, from when they brought him in. That must've been the man that shouted, the one they were torturing for information on Grey Wardens. None of this made any sense to him.

The armored woman pushed past him and pointed, as if they all couldn't see what was standing in front of them. "There it is," she said, sounding more like she was pointing out a particularly nice dress she coveted. Or in her case, maybe a particularly nice set of armor.

All four creatures turned to look at them. Anders felt a giggle rise up in his throat and quickly quashed it. It was just all too much. One was supposed to run _away_ from darkspawn, not towards them. And purple, really? Did darkspawn have tailors? Or did they just go around stealing clothing from people? Did they fight over who got to wear what color?

"It seems your words be true," said the creature, stepping towards them, "more than you are guessing."

"It _is_ talking!" Anders exclaimed.

"Well, let's shut it up already," the dwarf growled, all at once incredibly steady on his feet. Maybe he could get to like the drunken sot, that is, if they survived.

"Commander…" the Seneschal gasped. A trickle of blood ran down his neck.

Auria stepped out in front, holding her staff like a weapon. She swung it in a few arcs, warming up her muscles. He felt her gathering in the currents of electricity from around them, as if she were a lightning rod. Next to him the tall woman drew her sword with a fluid movement, her weight balanced in a fighter's stance. He wondered what her name was. He hadn't asked and she hadn't offered, but now it seemed wrong. You should know the names of those you're fighting with. He supposed now wasn't the best time to ask. From his other side, the dwarf muttered angry words to himself, his face becoming nearly as red as his hair. The bottom of his boots scraped the stone impatiently, like a bull readying for charge.

Anders settled his staff firmly in his hand, feeling the smooth wood respond to his grip, filling him with a heady sense of power. His senses felt cleaner, crisper. With just a little effort of will he could read the energies of those around him. He felt the pull of their minor injuries and then a hard tug, like a struggling fish caught on a line. The woman had a broken arm. How could she even lift her shield like that? His appreciation for her increased, this time based on more than the way she filled out her armor. Although, she did that nicely too, he couldn't help but think. He smiled as he concentrated, gathering the aura of a cleansing spell to him. He stepped closer to his companions and released it, just as the leader of the Darkspawn spoke.

"Capture the Grey Warden," it said, a tone of satisfaction in its voice, "these others, they may be killed."

A silence fell. Then as if Auria had given some unheard signal, the dwarf gave a blood-curdling cry and hurled himself forward, striking a heavy two-handed blow to the darkspawn holding the seneschal. The woman wasn't far behind, her shield coming up between the second darkspawn and the dwarf's head. Anders felt her energy increase as she realized the pain in her arm was gone. She blocked another strike, and then followed it up with a three-fold blow with her shield, sending the creature sprawling. Auria had thrown some sort of field around the leader. He wasn't frozen, but he was moving slowly as if caught in a vat of molasses.

Blood pounded in his ears as the battle roared around him. He felt like laughing, the adrenaline building up inside him. He hurled spell after spell, bolstering up health and energy while trying to whittle away at the enemies strength. All the while the storm raged around them. The darkspawn snarled like feral animals, gnashing their teeth and crying out in savage howls as they struck their blows. They were horrible creatures; their skin red and oozing as if it had been flayed off, leaving just enough raw, stinking flesh to cover their bones. He only had two nightmares in this world – being captured, and darkspawn. Just his luck he'd free himself of one, only to wind up right in the midst of the other.

Auria had thrown herself into fight, driving one end of her staff into an oncoming darkspawn and then quickly reversing it, sweeping the crescent moon adornment across the creature's neck. Only it wasn't an adornment, he could see now. The crescent moon glittered dangerously sharp in the rain, and the edge ran with blackened blood. Little forks of lightning writhed around it, sparks crackling through the air as she lunged forward for her next strike. The wind whipped up, blowing the smell of decay and electrified flesh into his nostrils.

Quenching his fear and the gagging repulsion the monsters engendered in him, Anders moved closer to the fray, trying to get in position to set fire to the creatures without burning up his comrades. The fight moved impossibly fast, blades clashing and bodies weaving, and he couldn't find an opening.

He suddenly felt out of the loop. The dwarf obviously knew just how to fight with Auria. They moved in concert, as if they'd planned the battle out beforehand. The stocky warrior drew back just in time as Auria sent a blast of ice across the roof, and then stepped in with a shattering blow, completely decimating the frozen darkspawn. The woman also seemed to know just when to pull away from the fight. Had they strategized ahead, or did she just have that second sense some soldiers seemed to have? She sprung back in after the ice spell, bringing up her shield in a horrific bash that nearly sheared off a darkspawn's arm. It hung at an angle, the armor cleaved through, just a few ropy sinews and a thin strip of metal holding the limb on. The monster gave a deafening roar of anger, and sliced under her shield with its other sword, leaving a dented furrow in her armor.

Anders could feel where the metal punctured her skin, and tried to heal the wound as best as he could. He couldn't heal it completely, not with points of steel cutting into her side. Then leader was free, his face grinning like a death mask, teeth sharp points in his mouth. He seemed to sense her injury, and came after the woman. Anders envisioned a large hand crushing him and flung the spell out. Nothing happened. The monster still rained blow after blow down on the woman. She tried to block with her shield, but Anders could see the strain that the effort cost. Her helmet went flying, and he felt a sickening tug as the weapon connected with her head, cracking her skull.

Growling in frustration, Anders quickly threw his own force field around the imposing creature, feeling the spell snag and then catch. Again, not completely immobilizing him. The thing turned toward him slowly, like an ant crawling through honey. Anders forced himself to ignore the weight of that stare. He threw out a cleansing aura, feeling the healing waves flow out of him. For a moment the world was weightless, as the injuries of all his companions healed. Then with a shock the world slammed back into him, and he almost dropped to his knees at the abrupt drop in mana.

The battle surged around him and he fell back. Without mana he had nothing but the barest of attacks. Damn the templars for taking all his lyrium supplies, he didn't even have any dust left on him. They'd probably taken it all themselves, the very night they'd caught him. He couldn't really blame them on that one though. That he could lay directly at the Chantry's feet.

"Anders, here!" Auria pressed a small vial into his hand. Her eyes were bright with battlelust. She gripped a wickedly edged sword, her staff now bound across her back. He drank the elixir, relief and power rising inside him as his mana flooded back. Only one darkspawn and the leader were left standing.

"Try to paralyze him," Auria said quickly. "I don't know if it'll work. Keep us healed, if it doesn't." She downed her own flask, and gave him the first full-blown smile he'd seen from her. An aura of strength and exhilaration radiated from her, like she was part of the storm itself. "I am glad you're here."

With that, she turned and darted back to the fight. He watched for a moment, struck by her fluidity and deadly grace. The leader broke free of the force field, and swung a blow down on her as she passed. She moved almost too quickly to follow, and parried another strike that should've flattened her to the ground. Anders cast a paralyzing spell out, but the monster shook it off like a dog shaking water from his coat.

The creature was massive, overshadowing Auria's small, elven frame. Still, his attacks hardly hurt her while her slashes left him bleeding from a dozen lacerations. Where had she learned to fight like that? There had to be magic involved, but he couldn't quite sense it out. Runes flashed along the flat of her sword, but that couldn't be it. He'd studied some minor runework, and they couldn't impart that much strength or swiftness.

The dwarf struck a killing blow to the last darkspawn, his axe heaving into the stonework right through its body. The woman had already turned to charge before he had his axe free. Now all three focused their attention on the leader, their weapons chipping away at him even as he knocked them back.

The horrific darkspawn feinted toward Auria, and then sent a cleaving strike down on the woman. She got her shield up just in time, but slipped on the wet rooftop, and wasn't able to put enough strength into the defense. Anders could feel her momentum waning, as she struggled to find her feet. But now he was the one smiling with feral savagery. He had more than enough power for this. Channeling his will with an almost gleeful determination, he sent healing and invigoration to his companions. He could feel their renewed vigor, and flung out spells to bolster their weapons and increase defense. After a moment's thought he infused the dwarf with increased attack power. He wasn't sure how that spell would affect Auria, and besides, she didn't look like she needed any assistance.

They fought on until finally, unbelievably, the monster stumbled, darkened blood pouring out of too many wounds to count. Auria leapt up, driving her blade down at an angle, point piercing into flesh where neck and armor met. She drove the sword deep, plunging into his chest. He fell slowly, like a toppling tree. Anders had to look away when Auria pulled her sword free. It was so deeply embedded in the body, she had to place a booted foot on the creatures head and yank it out. The neck snapped with a sickening crunch.

Rain continued to pour down, the sound of water on stone the only sound for a few moments. Auria stared down at the dead leader, her eyebrows drawn in puzzlement.

"Well, that was different," said the dwarf. "First time one's ever talked back, as we were trying to kill it."

"Yes…" Auria said slowly, her voice drawn out. "There is no arch demon leading them. But they are obviously being led by something."

"And dressed. He's got on prettier armor than I've seen you wear."

"Umm, Commander?" the woman cut in. "The seneschal?"

"On it," Anders said, already striding over to the prone man. "He's unconscious, but his injuries were healed during the fight, when I miraculously kept all of you in tip-top fighting shape. Am I good, or what?" He gave a sly grin to the woman, who was fingering her head as if she couldn't believe there wasn't a huge welt there. "If you want to take off that armor, I can see about the wound on your side. I can help you out of it, if you need a hand. Or two."

"I…no, I'm… it's fine," she said, coloring.

"Your loss, I have very skilled hands."

"Anders," Auria said, rubbing at her temple. The gleaming smile she'd given him earlier was gone, replaced again with that austere countenance. He met her eyes, and she shook her head slightly, telling him to leave it alone.

"Is your head hurting you?" he asked, taking a step in her direction. "I could try…"

She held up her hand, stopping him in his tracks "I can heal myself. And I'm not wounded."

"She's just missing her stress release," sniggered the dwarf, "Don't think we didn't know what you and ol' Alistair were up to after all those battles." He pulled out a flask from nowhere, and took a long draught. "Me, I only need this."

So it was true. She was the mistress of the king. Not like it was a bad situation to be in, mages couldn't marry anyway, so might as well be with someone rich and powerful. Although, technically, mages weren't supposed to have liaisons, either. So if you could do one while being a Grey Warden, could you do the other?

Auria ignored the dwarf's interjection, but didn't meet Anders eyes as she waved her hand in the seneschal's direction. "Can you please see if you can wake him up?" Auria said. "I need to know how the darkspawn got in, and if there are any surviving Grey Wardens."

"Of course. And I also have some herbs that might help your ache, if you need them later," Anders replied. Now she did look at him, glaring. "The ache in your head, I mean. You could make them into a tea."

Her gaze softened and she nodded her head once. "Thank you. Now, the seneschal?"

The man lay comatose on the stone rooftop, the rain making small, tinny sounds as it pinged against his armor. Anders couldn't feel any injuries, other than utter exhaustion. What he probably needed was a warm bed, a little sleep, and a safe place to wake up in. Too bad, since he probably wouldn't get any of the three very soon.

"I'm actually surprised all this rain hasn't woken him up." He glowered up at the sky, and then looked sadly down at his dripping robe. He hadn't even worn it yet when the templars found him. They'd rummaged through his satchel, throwing all his trousers onto the floor and ripping his shirts to shreds as he watched. A mage wasn't allowed to wear clothes like a man, they'd said, throwing the robe at him. The petty destruction of his property angered him, but he had been relieved they'd left the robe unsullied. It had been a present. "I'm so wet I'm creating my own puddles."

"That's what all the ladies say, when old Oghren comes to town," the dwarf said, laughing at his own joke.

"Disgusting," the woman said, and Oghren chortled.

"Commander…" the seneschal lifted his head.

"Don't try to stand too fast." Anders knelt to help him sit up. "I'd try sitting, first. Standing's overrated."

The man ignored him, pulling himself to his knees, and bowing before Auria, "Commander, I owe you my life."

Auria reached out her hand to help him up, steadying him on his feet. "I wish I had been here sooner," she replied, surveying the rooftop. Dead men and darkspawn lay strewn about, their blood pooling in the rain. He didn't really want to see the rest of the keep, the carnage must be atrocious.

Oghren walked to the roof's edge, looking down. "Poor bastards," he said, shaking his head. Then, more quietly, "May the stone welcome you."

The woman had moved farther down the roof as Oghren walked up, and now she pointed out to the distance. "There's something there."

They all peered out into the driving rain. It was too far for him to see properly, but there was definitely movement. Then a fork of lightning lit up the sky, illuminating armored men on horseback.

"Hmmm, soldiers on the road," the seneschal said. "It seems we have more company. Hopefully they're more hospitable than our previous guests."

"It's the King," breathed the woman, her face awestruck. "Look, there's his banner!"

"Great, now they show up," Anders muttered under his breath.

"The King," the seneschal exclaimed, "Please excuse me, Commander. I need to ready the Keep, and see what our situation is." He bowed once, and then strode off the roof. Auria stood, transfixed, her eyes out on the road. The woman next to her was nearly glowing with excitement. Even Oghren had a stupid grin on his face.

Anders didn't see what all the fuss was about. He was just a man. He looked like an ordinary man, too, at least from this distance. And he had an awfully big regiment with him, just to ride out here when he didn't even know there was an attack. Trying to impress a girl, maybe? He took a sidelong glance at Auria. Her expression hadn't changed, her face still serious and composed. But he saw a hand flutter to her hair, as if trying to smooth out the tangled, wet mess the storm had made of it.

"They should be here in less than twenty minutes," she said, "Meet me down in the courtyard in fifteen, that is, if you're committed." Her eyes flashed to his and he knew his earlier comment had hurt her, no matter what her countenance implied. She was also giving him a second chance at escape. "You're dismissed until then."

"Heh he he," the dwarf chuckled, "I guess she's not going to need your herbs tonight after all, mage."

Anders watched her go. No, he guessed not.


	6. Chapter 6

_Vigil's Keep, Amaranthine_

Auria kept her head up and her body controlled as she strode off the roof. She made her way quickly down the steps and into the Keep itself. The dead were everywhere. They'd have to gather up the darkspawn and burn them, some part of her mind catalogued for later. Along with any deceased victims who may have been tainted. The survivors never liked that part, but she couldn't chance even one person, dead or not, spreading the taint. She would also need to look over the wounded for signs of contamination. It had to be done. They cheered her after a battle, but that joy soon soured. She knew what people called her behind closed doors.

There were faint sounds coming from below. The seneschal would be preparing to meet the King. Her heart gave a sharp, twisting pain but sped up to a race all the same. He'd come, he'd actually come. She couldn't believe it. Had he read her letter? Or maybe – did this mean he'd defied Eamon? She couldn't hope for that, it hurt too much. He would never see Eamon as she did. She looked at Eamon and saw the same grasping control of a templar and that driving need to inflict his will on others, as if the Maker himself had whispered the answers to life in his ear. Alistair looked at him with the reverence in which a son holds a father, and saw a man he believed to have his best interests at heart. One thing was sure, Eamon didn't have _her_ best interests at heart – her usefulness had expired, and now she stood in his way. Alistair was the battleground between them.

The door to the roof opened and she heard clattering, armored boots on the stairs behind her. Auria opened the first door she came to, ducking inside and leaning back against the door as the sound of footsteps passed by her. She couldn't deal with Mhairi right now; she never would have chosen her as a recruit. If she could, she would've sent her back, promoted her up the ranks of the regular army, anything to divert her desire to become a Warden. There were stars in her eyes, and Auria didn't want to see those stars tarnish and dim.

She counted deep breaths, letting the door prop her up, welcoming the uncomfortable pressure as her weapons pressed into her back. Concentrating on that small pain, on the physical objects around her, she tried to clear her mind of emotions, but her knees felt like jelly and her head ached. That hollowness was blossoming inside her again, and she had to get control of it before she dissolved into huge, racking sobs. If she'd ever believed in the Maker, which she hadn't, she would think he was having one big laugh on her right now. Her life must be some sort of twisted game to him, a test to see just how much one person could take before snapping in half. Well, she wouldn't give him the satisfaction. Even if she didn't believe in his existence.

Or maybe he was just like her, and she was a piece to be used and sacrificed for the greater good. She'd done it herself, letting people die so more could live. Or not even letting, killing. Willingly, wantonly killing. How many people had she sacrificed since leaving the circle? How many lives had she left broken behind her in her great quest? Or even just because it suited her purposes? She still clung to the ideals she had as a girl, but now knew those ideas of freedom came at a very high price that not all wanted to pay. Sometimes it had to be shoved down their throats – freedom from the blight, freedom from themselves, freedom from their wasted lives. She had delivered freedom with swift blows. Auria shoved the thoughts away, pushing them down deep. They didn't bear thinking on. This whole subject didn't bear thinking on.

Her eyes adjusted to the dim light around her. The room was in tatters, shelves broken, books left gaping and open, what once was an ornate writing desk strewn in pieces across the bloody floor, like some obscene offering to a pagan god. There were no bodies, only darkening pools of blood. In another life this must've been an office, or maybe a private library. In a time before the blight, and the darkspawn, and possibly before the treachery and temptation of greed seeped into Rendon Howe's veins. She wondered if this had been his room, or someone else's. It made little difference.

It was too much, in too short of time. She'd expected anything but arriving to a darkspawn attack, let alone one led by a thinking, intelligent darkspawn, who spoke and carried out a full plan of attack. The implications were staggering. And how had they not known there were darkspawn in the area? Their troops were spread too thin. Maybe they needed to conscript soldiers, instead of just asking for volunteers. The masses wouldn't like her for that. Or they could press petty criminals into service. Even as her mind ran down a list of possibilities, of checks and balances, another part replayed her arrival to the Keep.

She felt the darkspawn, as they turned the bend in the road. Felt their stench, as if the fetid odor was a physical presence that vibrated off-key with her very soul. Then the killing began. Along with that memory came the guilt. The guilt for those she couldn't save, and the guilt for the crescendoing pleasure she felt as she sank her blade into each creature, or squeezed the life from their wretched, loathsome bodies and felt it bleed into her own.

Soft, booted footsteps came down the stairs, breaking into her thoughts. Anders. She sucked in a breath, for a moment reliving the moment when she opened the door to see the fire raging, the long line of his back, his nimble fingers outstretched. Her heart had processed the image faster than her brain did. It flopped, like a landed fish, sending a spasm through her chest. But she hadn't believed it. He was dead. They told her he was dead. Greagoir had given her his damned earring, for Andraste's sake. She'd felt the enchantment of it, the weight. She'd worn the bloody thing around her neck until that night with Alistair at the river. The memory washed over her, searing in its clarity. Oh, Alistair. What would he think of Anders being here, now?

Auria closed her eyes, sinking down to her knees against the door. Alistair had helped her search the tower for him, just in case they'd been lying. He'd been so patient, supporting her even as she demanded to dig through the mutilated bodies of those who had been possessed. The Circle she once knew had been transformed into something out of a nightmare, and she'd come so close to letting the templars raze the whole thing to the ground. But she couldn't give in, not like that, and not to the templars. Not when there was the slightest chance… They'd searched every room, every dark dungeon that Greagoir tried to hide from her, even the very rooms of the templars themselves.

She shook with silent laughter. Irving and Greagoir must've thought they were so clever, conspiring against her with the story of his death. Had Irving made the earring himself? They must've lied to her thinking it would tame her, that like any silly lovesick girl she would turn to bad poetry or throw herself into the listless mind-numbing occupation of practicing entropy spells on herself. They must've been so afraid she would try to go after him. Oh, but how it had backfired. They had done the one thing that most assured her escape. In trying to kill her spirit, they'd killed her heart. Jowan may have used blood magic to escape, but she was the one who'd been ready to take a life. If Duncan hadn't been there… she boxed away the thought.

He had been there. And he'd given her focus, a direction in which to point her rage. She still went a little half-mad when the battle fury overtook her, but nothing like those first days when fright and anger merged into shockingly savage attacks. She liked to think she had developed a fine control of her battle lust now, wielding it like another weapon. A very feline smile played over her lips, the smile of a predator stalking prey. Someday she would have to thank Irving and Greagoir for their help. Without their interference she would never have known just how much she excelled at killing, or known what pleasure it would give her. They definitely needed to be made aware of the role they played, how they helped her down this path. If that knowledge brought more pain than joy, well, it couldn't be helped.

Alistair would be here soon. She hesitated, not wanting to go down. Here, in this moment, all possibilities existed, and no decisions had been made. Once she left the room the possibilities would narrow down, falling away one by one. She would know why he came, why he was here so soon after she arrived, know if he'd read her letter, and know if her fool heart gave her away once again. She would also know if Anders stayed. She couldn't deal with his appearance now. She'd finally made peace with his death, and here he was, acting as if it had only been a brief span of weeks since she'd seen him. As if… as if… she closed her eyes tightly, trying to shut away the past.

_

* * *

_

_Circle Tower, Lake Calenhad_

She held him tight under the cover of darkness, and wondered if he knew there were tears slipping down her cheek. Auria felt nauseous and scared and clingy and wanted to be none of those things. This wasn't her. If anyone had asked for words to describe herself, Auria would have given them four words: strong, clever, confident and lighthearted, or maybe mischievous if she was in a more honest mood. She didn't want to be one of those girls, crying as if life would end because of some man. She'd despised those girls.

Auria stifled a sob. It wasn't supposed to happen like this. None of it had happened like she expected. It was supposed to be something fun, and, okay, maybe she'd thought she was special – but she started the relationship knowing there was a finite time for them to be together. Somewhere along the way it had all changed, and she thought it had changed for him, too. Auria squeezed her eyes shut against the burning tears. She should've left him first. Then she could've pretended not to care. But instead she'd given him a present, an anniversary present of all things, and then watched as he folded up on himself, withdrawing from her.

It felt like a precise extraction, an uncoupling, as if he was moving farther away from her even as he held her in his arms. She inhaled slowly, and then exhaled. She couldn't start sobbing, not here, not curled around him, her face buried against his chest. But she felt a great welling of emptiness at the thought she might never hold him like this, they might never laugh, or kiss, or tease one another again. It felt as if some giant, cavernous hole had opened up inside her and she wanted to writhe in pain. How had no one ever told her? How had no one ever warned her that love could do this to you? How could one person feel this much pain and still live?

She shoved her emotions down, reigning them in with the tight control she'd learned while practicing spells. Her life had always been defined by that command, by the great wells of willpower and determination she had to draw on. She could put it to use now. The void was still there, a black mass howling inside her, but she could pretend for a few moments.

Anders made a half-hearted attempt to keep her there, and then offered up the cat who'd adopted them, like some type of consolation prize. A tiny flare of anger burst inside her. She didn't want the damn cat, well she did, but that wasn't the point. He had felt the relationship change, she knew he did. This wasn't just a bit of fun and games to him anymore than it was to her, but he was just too stupid and scared to admit it to himself. They could find a way to escape together, he _knew_ they were stronger together than they were alone. Or he could at least admit his feelings; leave her with something, some knowledge of how important she was to him. The burst of anger dissolved as quickly as it had come, and she fought back the hiccuping sob threatening to rise in her throat. She exerted her will once more. If he wasn't going to care then she wasn't going to care, either.

Auria kissed him like nothing was wrong. He didn't try to stop her again. She padded softly away into the night, feeling like she'd just left half her heart behind.

…

In the brightness of the morning things seemed much less dire. She told herself that she'd exaggerated it all, that the mortification of giving an unexpected (and uncounted) anniversary gift had clouded her mind. Once she explained how it meant nothing, and nothing had changed, everything would be all right. It would all go back to normal.

But he wasn't there. He wasn't anywhere. He'd withdrawn himself so far from her that he'd actually escaped to do it.

Coming back from a thorough search of the tower, she sat on his empty bed. It still smelled like him. Like them. He hadn't even left her a note, or a goodbye. He had promised to tell her before he left. The great wracking sobs she'd been suppressing all night overwhelmed her, and she pressed her face into the pillow, heaving shuddering, silent cries.

.~.~.~.~.

"They caught Anders!" the rumor rippled like lightning through the apprentice rooms, shocking students into motion. A few of the more cagey apprentices started taking bets on which templar found him, and what his punishment would be this time. Auria had no doubts of the templar. There was only one templar with enough passionate hate and dedication to start the search without waiting for his phylactery.

One senior enchanter wheezed, "We are not leaving the rooms. Apprentices will remain in the Apprentice Hall." But the mass push towards the doors was too much, even the templars were leaving their posts in order to see the captive brought in.

Auria hung back, trying to school the torrent of her emotions into some semblance of calm. She arrived just in time to hear Greagoir's interrogation.

Anders stood, gaunt and dirty in some castoff, ill-fitting clothes. His legs and wrists were still shackled, rubbed raw, and she could see a great purple bruise welling against the side of his face. His blonde hair had once been braided, but now it hung lank and stringy. She could see one ear caked with blood. Tears welled in her eyes, seeing him bound and hurting.

Rylock stood behind him with the smug, self-satisfied look she'd seen most often on the very pious, especially when they'd caught another person sinning.

"…in the company of underage prostitutes?" Greagoir's voice rang out.

Auria's mind reeled. Prostitutes? Another apprentice was whispering furiously to the girl behind her, detailing all the charges Rylock had just drawn against him. She didn't believe it. They couldn't believe it. This was Rylock. Irving had to know how prejudice she was. She would tell him. She would demand justice. Auria pushed her way to the front of the crowd, sending small zings of electric static shock when people wouldn't move out of her way.

"And you were going to sell your own body to a pirate, for cooperation?" Greagoir asked, his bushy eyebrows drawn down into a scowl. He would believe it, Auria thought, he always wanted to believe the worst. But he wasn't the only one who ruled here, Irving would listen.

"A female pirate!" Anders shot back. Auria stopped. A female pirate? He wasn't denying it? Her stomach did a strange sort of flop, like it did when she thought of being pulled under the water. But what they were saying couldn't be true. Of course he would sail with a pirate, why not? That would be the best means of escape. And he'd wanted to join the pirates before, that's how he got his earring in the first place. But the rest were lies.

A sudden urgency filled her. The past days of emotional turmoil seemed unimportant. He had to know that she believed him, that she didn't care how he left, that she would fight for him. She willed him to look her way.

"Rylock is twisting the truth, I'm not guilty," Anders said, finally turning his gaze her way. His eyes were miserable, she could see hope dying behind them.

"I believe you," she mouthed, and pushing her way closer, she mouthed the words again, "I believe you." But as she watched, Anders turned away, his eyes sliding guiltily from hers, a flush creeping up his neck to turn his skin pink underneath the bruising.

She felt as if all her insides had turned to stone. She couldn't focus on what they were saying, her mind only repeating one thought. It was true. Some part of it was true. Something more than just shipping off with pirates, something so bad he couldn't even look her in the eye. But she knew him, another part of her mind argued, he would never do anything seriously wrong, he was a blightblasted _healer_, for Andraste's sake!

Irving was speaking now. She pushed her way to the front, not caring when the templars gave her dirty looks. The words, "unclothed, among prostitutes" pierced through her, and she felt ill. Had she really driven him into the arms of prostitutes? Not just one, but many?

"…I'd just… lost my clothes, and they were helping me," Anders explained, his voice almost jaunty. Lost his clothes. Lost his clothes! Oh, she was sure he'd lost his clothes, misplaced them right into the arms of some tall, svelte temptress. A fiery, sickening jealousy surged through her veins and she shoved it away, dampening down on all her emotions. She would not be that girl. She would not.

His head hung, dejected and hopeless, as Irving and Greagoir conferred. Salted tears burned her eyes. They would take him to solitary again, she knew it. No matter what she said to Irving, there would be no stay of his sentence. She heard it in the muffled tones of their voices. She couldn't let him be dragged away like that, she just couldn't. No matter what he'd done, or who he'd done it with. It didn't matter, not really. He was still Anders.

So when he looked up again, she whispered to him the one thing she'd never let herself say aloud before.

"I love you," she said. He shrugged, noncommittally. He didn't hear, she told herself. He didn't understand. She mouthed the words more slowly, gesturing with her hand. He gave her a smile. She'd seen that smile a thousand times. It was the smile he gave to the younger hero-worshipping apprentices as they blathered on, when really he wanted to tell them how monumentally boring he thought they were. It was one of their shared jokes.

Now she could picture it, how he and the pirate must've laughed over her, the childish gift she'd made, her inexperienced attempts at lovemaking – she'd been a fool. A complete and utter fool. Humiliation sliced through her.

The room felt hot and stifling, and she was afraid she was going to be sick. Auria turned, and fled.

.~.~.~.~.

Auria had sworn she'd never forgive him. Not even when she heard he was going to be flogged, and locked up in solitary again for months. If he had listened to her and taken her advice, maybe he wouldn't have relied on the woman who came to sell them sundries and supplies. It was whispered all over the tower how the woman had turned on him, selling Rylock all the information in exchange for her own life. They even could've escaped together, and none of this would have happened. But no. He'd wanted to escape to the brothel, to sail with that sluttish pirate woman. He had chosen them over her deliberately – that was no plan thrown together at the last moment. How would he have known where the pirate would be?

No. She wouldn't forgive him. He could rot. But then screams rent the air, and she forgot everything else as she rushed to the window. Anders was in the courtyard, ringed by templars and tied to a post. He was shirtless, his bare back exposed and already showing dark red lashes across its surface. Rylock stood behind him, with a long cat o'nine tails gripped in her hand. She was smiling. She raised her arm, cracking the whip down again, in a blow that tore a long scream from Anders throat.

"Heal," she urged unconsciously, "heal, heal." Could she send a sleeping spell from here? One so pinpointed it would knock him out? But then he wouldn't be able to heal the wounds as they happened. Drips of blood ran down his back now. "Heal!" she called out, her voice hoarse.

That's when she felt it. They were using cleansing spells. They were all using cleansing spells. The templars ringing him weren't just for show, they were going to keep him from using any of his powers. The whip would tear him open, and he would feel every stroke. Fury boiled up inside her, and she turned on her heel.

…

Irving was right where she thought he'd be.

"They're killing him out there, and you don't even have the guts to watch it," she accused, storming into his office.

"Auria. You shouldn't be here."

"Are you so old and toothless that Greagoir doesn't bother to listen to you? Or did you agree to let Rylock whip him as all the templars stand around in a great big circle jerk and wipe his healing spells out of the air? Do you know what this will do to him?" Auria's eyes flashed, and she didn't know it, but thin wisps of hair had begun to rise with static electricity.

"You need to calm down, child. Anders brought this upon himself."

"Bullshit!" She stepped closer to him, her feet making small crackling sounds against Irving's plush carpet. "Rylock is a liar or delusional, and you know it. They are torturing him down there. She can't kill him outright, so she's torturing him. And you're letting her!" Furious tears streamed down her cheeks, "I thought this was supposed to be a balance of power. Greagoir will take everything now, we might as well all bend over and let them…"

"Auria! You will not speak to me in that tone or that manner, and you will control yourself!" Irving stood up from behind his desk, the aura of his power pushing around her, dampening the small sparks she created.

"It's true. Are you so impotent, or are you just that stupid?"

Irving slammed his fist down on his desk, sending his tea cup jumping to the floor. "You will behave!"

Auria suddenly felt herself in a contracted field, holding both her body and her tongue immobile. She forced her tongue to move, murmuring thickly against Irving's power, "She'll kill him. Your fault."

Irving pursed his lips, staring at her. "You can stay there. We'll discuss your punishment when I get back."

Relief flooded Auria as Irving swept out of the room. She tested the boundaries of his spell. She could probably break it, but better to stay here. It was doubtful he'd be too happy with her on his return.

…

Auria sat on the floor, in the almost nonexistent light of a small closet, and practiced the ancient, sordid words in her head. Her blade was shiny and sharp, she'd stolen it from the kitchens that very morning. Now all she had to do was use it.

It took weeks to find out where they were keeping Anders, and several more after that to determine he was too well guarded to get in by any traditional means. But Auria was determined. She'd seen the glowering rage Rylock walked around in, as if a perpetual rain cloud stormed about her head. It would only be a matter of time before she found some way to get to Anders. The great, aching cavern that had been her heart wouldn't let her rest. Maybe he never felt the same way as she did, but that didn't make what they'd shared any less real. Anders had never pretended anything more than what he gave. And he would try to save her, if positions were reversed, she knew it. Although probably not in this manner, she thought guiltily, testing the edge of the weapon.

His cell held one window, more like a skinny slit in the stone, really, but it would work for her purposes. Anders would never forgive her for this, she thought, as she pressed a small, sharp knife into the palm of her hand. Blood oozed and then ran, dripping into the bowl she'd brought for just that purpose.

She'd found the books in Irving's private study, of all places. He made her sit in his office for an hour every day. He seemed to have taken personal interest in her studies. Sometimes he lectured, sometimes he gave her private lessons in spellcraft. But sometimes he would be called away, leaving her with a book to study. Those were the times she took it upon herself to search his office. There had to be something that would help Anders somewhere.

And there had been, it just wasn't quite what she'd been expecting. Irving kept a large, ornate chest in the corner of his office. Locked, of course – but Anders had been teaching her how to pick locks before he'd escaped, and this one gave way with a satisfying click.

It was inside that she'd found them, some ancient and evil-smelling, some bound in new, bright colors. Books on blood magic. It was a moment's thought, really. She neatly severed the book she'd been reading from its cover, and then did the same for the most promising book on blood magic. It was a simple spell to rebind them in each other's covers. After that, it was just expressing an earnest interest in mastering glyphs, and she walked right out of his office with the forbidden book under her arm.

She just hoped Irving didn't read up on the darker magics too often.

The blood looked black inside the bowl, and her palm ached like fire. She was afraid to heal it, not yet. "I'm sorry, kitty," she whispered, fastening a new collar around his neck, trying not to drip blood. She should've done this before. Hopefully Anders recognized the pattern, and understood the message she was sending. Auria called up the power from her blood, and with another whispered apology, forced her will into the small animal brain. She tied the image of that high slitted window in his cell with a scent of cheese. The kitty always liked cheese. The cat ran willingly away from her.

She wasn't really doing anything wrong, she told herself. Some of the spells in the book had been much darker, giving her an oily greasy feeling as she'd read them. This one was harmless. It wasn't even like she was controlling the animal, she was just inserting a few nudges and images into its brain. There was nothing wrong with that. Still, the day seemed a little darker, the scent of coppery blood cloying in the air.

…

The cat appeared normal when it returned to her that evening, curling around her feet with a gentle purr. "See, it forgives me", she said to no one in particular. The cat still wore the collar she'd made, and there weren't any signs that Anders had received her message at all.

She tried for several more days, then changed the collar, hoping he'd turn it inside out and read the coded message there. Still, nothing. Auria consoled herself with the thought that at least he was getting a little company out of it. A dark thought woke her up in the middle of the night. What if he was unconscious, or dying, lying there in the cell? What if Rylock got to him already? She hadn't seen the woman in days now.

Feeling sick, Auria crept to her hiding place and drew out the book. There had to be a spell that could help, something that would let her know he was alive. Tears welled, and she thrust back her emotions in frustration. She understood, she was now sneaking out in the middle of the night to practice blood magic where once she'd snuck out to be with him. But she was through with all the tears, it was enough.

…

The next spell made her feel dirty, but she had to do it. Making a sharp cut into her flesh, she gasped – but not in pain, in the raw onslaught of power. She hadn't used magic in over a week, the cat visiting Anders of its own volition, and now the power felt overwhelming, like a drug. Again she forced an image into the cats mind, but this time with an extra little twist. The bottom dropped out of her stomach, and she almost retched onto the floor.

"Sorry," she whispered, and "Go." It went.

…

The cat slunk up to her and paused, swaying slightly on its feet. Auria hurried from the room, with a glance around to her fellow apprentices. No one seemed to care or notice. Taking the stairs quickly, she ducked into the little forgotten closet she'd been using to cast her spells. The cat followed at her heels. Locking the door behind her, she made a small incision in each fingertip, and then placed the bleeding points against the cat's skull. With a quick wrench, like pulling cloth free of a wound, Auria grabbed a series of images from the cats mind.

Stone floor. Stone window. Window sill. And then, what she'd been waiting for, an image of his face. It was distorted, the colors and edges not what she was used to seeing. But it was him. He was conscious and alert, and as the image changed, she held back a laugh. A bit of cheese held out by long fingers. No wonder the cat liked visiting Anders, he saved his own food to share with it. She sighed and gave in, feeling the ache of love suffuse her, but softer now. She felt tender, like she wanted to hold him. He was still Anders.

Now, she only had to get him out.

* * *

_Vigil's Keep, Amaranthine_

It was shockingly simple, at the end. Simple, that is, if you gave up all compunction of doing no harm. With very little magic she had soured the food supply, bringing the entire circle, templars, mages, servants and all, down with food poisoning. Very virulent food poisoning. All the running back and forth to the privies and the healers left the guard posts empty, both at the cell and on the path to the lake. The door itself had been easy to unlock from the outside. The hardest part, the part she'd most deliberated on, was whether or not to let Anders get food poisoning himself. She had no way to warn him. If he was sick he might be too weak to escape or heal himself. Her healing spells were too weak at that point to heal anything as systemic as food poisoning. Not that they were too much farther at this point – healing had never been her forte.

It had been a turning point. Knowing he would truly never forgive her if he found out, she had pressed the point of her knife into the crook of her arm and watched the blood well and then gush. Auria rubbed her arm in memory. That was her first deep cut. Now she had small scars up and down her arms; not even adept healing could erase all marks of blood magic. Most people assumed they were battle scars, but another blood mage – they knew what to look for. She'd seen more than one knowing look as she'd sliced an enemy down.

The blood spell had been a little too forceful, she'd overcompensated. It had, after all, been her first blood casting on a human. Anders hadn't been aware of anything when she had opened his cell door. Nothing but that cat. The three of them had walked right out the door and down to the lake. Him, following the cat as if she didn't exist.

Auria had been tempted to go with him; the memory throbbed with an old hurt, like a wound that never healed properly. She wondered sometimes what would've happened if she had. But standing there, water lapping at her feet, she just couldn't do it. She couldn't go out into the lake. She could will herself to do anything but that. Alistair had been the one to break her of that fear. He'd taught her to swim.

Auria stood up straight, adjusting her armor and settling her weapons, staff and sword, in place on her back. She'd given herself food poisoning to cover her tracks, but it had been worth it. Setting Anders free had been like setting free a piece of herself, as if part of her was out in the world unfettered by the templar's oppression. It made life at the Circle bearable, and she hadn't regretted it. Not until the day Irving had come to her privately, with Greagoir standing like a black shadow behind him, and told her Anders was dead. Evading capture. So sorry. And then Greagoir gave her the earring. What looked like to be the very same earring he had worn today. Which was impossible, since she'd worn it herself up until that night with Alistair. They'd buried it under a Rowan tree. She'd mourned.

And now he was here, alive, smiling and making jokes as if nothing happened, as if the span of years had been nothing more than a few weeks. He couldn't just walk back into her life and pretend the past didn't exist. Somehow, in some way, he could've sent word he was alive. Surely when he heard she was a Grey Warden, he could've come to her then. Enough. Enough, she commanded. Alistair was the one who had been there with her. He had been the one to hold her hand, and bandage her wounds, and forgive her use of blood magic. Hot tears filled her eyes, and for a moment she let them fall. He had made her feel clean again and loved her like she never thought she would be, not after the things she'd done.

Turning her back on the shambles of the former office, Auria left the room. Not one trace of tears remained when she reached the stairs. She was controlled and unwavering, the chaos of emotions wiped away.

They would both be out in the courtyard; the man she loved, and the man she had first loved. And neither one would see her cry.


	7. Chapter 7

**Author's Note:** Thank you so much to everyone who has reviewed or followed me! Also, this chapter is a little shorter than normal, since otherwise it would've been very much longer than normal. The long portion will probably be following in a day.

* * *

_Vigil's Keep, Amaranthine_

The courtyard bustled with activity. The number of people surprised him. Every able-bodied person must be out to greet the king. Not that he had anything against the King, per se. All told he seemed to be a good king, as kings went. He had even raised a glass to him at some of the taverns, especially after hearing the man wasn't above having a pint or two himself. They'd also toasted to the Hero of Ferelden, the elven mage who slew the great dragon and stopped the blight. It seemed strange now, that he'd been toasting to Auria and hadn't even known it. His eyes kept returning toward the doors of the Keep, but she hadn't appeared yet.

He could've left now, he supposed. Slunk out while everyone was busy and before the king's outriders arrived. The thought had crossed his mind, as he had made his way down the cold, empty corridors of the Keep. The warrior woman (her name turned out to be Mhairi) had rushed off immediately after Auria. He could see hero-worship there already. It made him feel weary. Oghren had made no move to leave the roof, instead staring out into the distance as if he could see something Anders couldn't. He'd contemplated asking the dwarf about Alistair, but he didn't really want to hear the answers. The large belch Oghren gave after taking a long swig from his flask wasn't too inspiring, either. Had any darkspawn survived their onslaught, the waves of stench would've killed them.

It actually surprised him that there _were_ no surviving darkspawn. He'd expected the creatures to jump out of the shadows at any moment, falling on them again when they were unaware. But he only passed the dead on his way down to the courtyard. Dead darkspawn, dead soldiers, dead men and women. Dead children. He closed his eyes as if he could shut out the sight, but it was still there, filling his mind's eye. No matter how much death he'd seen, and he'd seen more of it than he cared to remember in the past couple years, he could never get over seeing the crumpled, lifeless bodies of children. A spasm of anger ran through him.

"Aiyy!" the man he was healing yelped in shock, as Anders lost control of the spell, sending a surge of healing into the man's arm.

"Umm, sorry about that," Anders smiled, his mouth cocking to one side. "But see, all healed. Good as knew. Better, in fact." He demonstrated by bending the man's arm back and forth.

"You were brought in by the templars," the man said, his voice trembling, in fear or relief, Anders wasn't sure. The man was wearing what must've once been clean and sturdy clothes, plain, but serviceable. Now they were rent with tears, blood blackening in streaks down his left side.

"I was? Oh yes, I was. Great times. I'll miss them," Anders pretended to wipe a tear from his eye.

"They're dead?" the man, probably a servant, whispered, backing away and almost tripping over another man lying prone behind him.

"Not by me," Anders exclaimed, and wondered how often he would have to repeat that.

"Sorcery and darkspawn!" The man drew some type of warding symbol in front of him, "_You _made them talk!"

"Wait till you see what I do for my next trick!" Anders replied, "It's a real showstopper."

The man turned and ran.

"That's alright, no need to thank me. I'll be here all week, giving free healing to the poor and ungrateful," Anders called after him.

"What'd you do, lift your dress?" Oghren's gruff voice chortled from behind him.

"I told him you were on your way down, and he just ran off. I can't imagine why."

"Heh. So funny I almost pissed myself."

"Is Auria here yet?" Anders heard himself ask, and wanted to snatch the words from the air.

"Oh, _Auria_, is it? Not Commander or Warden, but _Aurrrria_." Oghren sidled up close, giving him a belligerent glare as if he was the one with the towering height, "Don't think I don't know who you are, mage."

"I…What?"

Oghren gave a laugh that veered into drunkenness, "You're the one in the sodding skirt, that's what." He laughed again, wobbling a little. The laughter abruptly cut off. "I'm watching you." He glared with what Anders was already staring to think of as "The Berserker Stare" and then stomped off into the rain.

Anders watched him go, perplexed. Maybe the templars had killed him. Maybe he was having some sort of strange hallucinatory dream. This couldn't really be happening, could it? He'd woken up this morning in a reasonably normal world – chained and cold and hungry, expecting to be dragged back on the road in the all too familiar trek back to the circle. Now the templars were dead, the darkspawn were talking, Auria was back from the dead and he was being threatened by a drunken dwarf.

"Does this make any sense to you?" he asked the unconscious man he was healing. "No? Me either."

There was something wrong in all this. If the blight had been put down and there was no Archdemon, then where had that talking darkspawn come from? And how had he led the others so successfully, slaughtering or stealing away all the supposedly unbeatable Orlesian wardens? Anders shook his head. He really didn't want to be involved with this. He had other things to attend to. Urgent things. The thought of his phylactery being so close made his fingers twitch. What if they'd moved it already? What if he never made it back? Thoughts of the Free Marches came to his mind; warm hazel eyes, the soft scent of lavender, the fall of a tear as carefully sewn robes were pressed into his hands. No, if he was smart, he would've stolen some dead man's clothing and be off through the fields at this very moment.

Anders sighed. Today wasn't his day for being smart. Instead of saving himself, he'd gone straight to the makeshift infirmary set up just out of the rain and ruckus of the main courtyard. He'd never been able to walk away from an injury. Just one of his many failings, he thought wryly. A dog whimpered nearby, and Anders eyes searched through the driving rain. There. A mabari hound was dragging itself valiantly through the muck, an ear torn away and its back leg twisted. Anders ran to it with that strange twisting hope the blight had woken in him – that either none of the blood was the animal's, or that all of it was. Strange how he could find himself wishing for great gaping wounds. But better that than a small wound, with darkspawn blood leaching poisonously through the body. The dog whined and lay its large head on his shoes. Anders sighed. A little more muck and saliva to add to today's gore. He lowered his staff, letting the awareness of each wound flood into him. No, he couldn't walk away from an injury. Not even a dog's. That was how it all started, really.

…

His earliest memory was that of being coddled on his sister's lap. It was a happy memory, with a glow of warmth and the distinct feeling he could do no wrong. Sometimes he would still trot out that memory, like an old friend or a bottle of whiskey, to warm up lonely nights.

It had been night, he remembered, thick curtains drawn against the dark, and there had been singing and the scent of something delicious in the air. He had three sisters, but at that moment in time they were indistinct from one another, just images of softness and long curls and laughter. One of them – he'd never know which one – set him on the floor to go into the kitchen. As she left the room, she'd called out to Ms. Wilhelmina Longbottom (he also never knew which sister named her, although he supposed it didn't matter – the dog did have a particularly long bottom), but the dog didn't respond.

He liked to stop the memory there, or begin it again, trying to catch just what song they were singing, or pluck the exact fragrance that wafted from his sister's swirling skirts. But the memory didn't really end there. It carried on, his sister leaving the room, and he, himself turning toward their dog where she lay by the fireplace.

There was a feeling circling just out of reach, a current of something he didn't have a name or a word for at that age. It was as if the dog whined, but not out loud, or even in his head. The whine was on some other plane, an echo of it vibrating across his skin from the direction of the dog. He remembered everything about that moment; the plushness of the rug with its myriad of colors, the whining cry of his older brother complaining of being sent to bed when Anders was allowed up, the stomp of his father's boots on the stoop outside the door. All of it combined and froze as he reached their mabari. He stretched out his still chubby hands and rested them on her leg, the fur was coarse and the limb hot. He didn't know what he did, or what was wrong with her. He only knew that she hurt, and he wanted her not to hurt, and he wished with all of his four year old heart that she not hurt.

The moment broke; the front door opened, his brother pounded angrily up the stairs, and Ms. Wilhelmina Longbottom stood up and raced into the kitchen, yapping for her dinner. Anders was swooped up into his father's arms, laughing.

He didn't know what he'd done was different or miraculous until many months later, when he felt that tug for a second time. Only that time it wasn't a gentle current, but an overwhelming tide that threatened to wash him out to sea. Everything changed then, as if the ocean really had washed over his life and when it flooded back, nothing was as it had been. They'd left the clean, beautiful home he known all of his informative years, and moved to a feral place, with forbidding forests on one side and craggy hills that led to the sea on the other. Andraste's tits, but he'd hated that forest.

The dog licked his hand, its wet, warm tongue dripping saliva over his fingers and snapping him out of the memory.

"Thanks for that," Anders told it.

The dog barked and ran a circle around him.

"Properly grateful, and you don't care that I'm a mage," Anders paused. Hoofbeats. The dog leaned against his side, warm in the cold rain. It was probably getting fur all over his robes, but he supposed it didn't matter now, what with the rain and the blood and the dirt that covered him. He considered. Maybe Auria knew a spell to get blood out of clothes. He hadn't been able to perfect one yet.

The sounds of an approaching army were clear now. They must be miserable, riding through this weather. He wondered if they knew yet what awaited them here at the Keep. Welcome! Death, death and more death. Help yourself.

Although – with the King present they'd be sure to have a feast of some kind. Anders' stomach rumbled. It was mandatory, kingly protocol and all. The seneschal was probably ordering the cook about at this very moment. Or maybe a scullery maid. There must be someone left who knew how to cook, Anders thought optimistically. And the darkspawn wouldn't have hurt the foodstores, they didn't do that. Of course, they didn't talk either. Maybe he'd check for poison, just in case.

The outriders sloshed through the gates, the clopping of their horses' hooves sending showers of mud and water over the few people waiting eagerly for a look at the king. Anders hid a laugh. The man who'd run off was among them. The dog left him to race over to the horses, barking excitedly.

"Oh hound, how fickle thou art," Anders said dramatically. He looked around. There was no one there to hear him.

Just then a horn blared with what only Fereldens could think of as any kind of musical anthem, and impressively, the King rode in on a large horse, its black mane striking against its dun coat. The color of the horse set the King's golden armor off nicely. He wondered if the horse had been chosen for just that reason. The King dismounted before anyone could run to help him, but then just stood there, stock still, as if the rain had rusted the joints of his armor together. Anders followed his line of vision. Auria.

She stood, as if rain weren't pouring down soaking her, back straight and face somber. Her intricately carved staff was in her hand, the bottom planted firmly at her feet, like a walking stick. Somewhere along the line she'd taken the time to re-sling her sword, the scabbard now hanging at her hip. She stood out from all the eager people milling about, like some exotic elven queen. Awaiting her king, Anders thought, surprised at the bitter flavor of his thoughts.

The seneschal and a few servants were wading out into the rain to greet the King, but moments before they reached him, Alistair began to walk forward. His strides quickened, becoming a trot and then almost a run. Anders eyes went to Auria. He couldn't read her face, not at this distance. But he could see the moment she decided to move, some emotion breaking through the implacable expression she wore. She ran forward and was embraced in the King's arms.

Anders felt a wave of nausea roll over him that had nothing to do with the stench of bloodied, maimed bodies strewn around him. He turned away, toward his patients.

"You!" he motioned to a man a few lengths away, staring opened mouthed at the King. "We need to get these people inside, out of the storm."

"But, but, the King!" the man motioned.

"Yes, there's the King. I doubt he's going anywhere in the next ten minutes. You can stand around and gawk at him then. Unless you think he'd like to know his subjects died, just because you wanted a good look at royalty."

The man looked around, as if trying to seek someone to get him out of the task. Instead the only surviving medic pinned him with a glare. "You heard the mage, get some men together and get the injured inside."

Anders and the medic shared a nod, healer to healer. People needed him here. At least he could ease _their _suffering. He closed his eyes, focusing on the job at hand.

He didn't see as Rylock rode in through the gate, her eyes fervently scanning over survivors.


	8. Chapter 8

_Vigil's Keep, Amaranthine_

Auria waited, as she had waited so many times since that fateful day atop the rooftop in Denerim. Her life had become a game of waiting. At least during the Blight there'd been some sense of control, however illusionary, as events pushed her along, like a boat racing ahead of a storm. She had been forced to make choices, choices that still made her ache if she let herself open that covered, hidden box inside her, but they had been choices followed by action. Funny how quickly she'd come to count on forging her own path, after all the years of never considering it a possibility. Now she and Eamon sidestepped around one another in some intricate dance of false smiles and never-ending patience, each of them trying to change the tune while forcing the other to stumble. She wasn't sure who had missed a step, to send Alistair out here today.

Rain poured down on her, soaking her skin, but the cold drops felt good. Helped her concentrate. She was aware of the bustle around her, the seneschal making every effort to greet Alistair with a King's welcome, even in the horror Vigil's Keep had become. She was also aware of Anders, standing off to her right, his healing spells like a warm glow that at once comforted and confused.

But it was the misty figure approaching through the rain that drew most of her attention. The more distinct Alistair became the more she drew in energy from the storm, wrapping it like a shield around her. Then he was at the gate, smiling that proud little smile he got every time he rode out at the head of his troops. She willed her heart to slow; it raced like a hunted thing, surging in her chest even as her face remained calm and composed.

He rode Bucket, of course, that fool of a horse he couldn't get enough of. Auria had come to like some horses since leaving the Tower, but not many tolerated her use of blood magic and the electric current that always seemed to shimmer around her. She'd found it hard to foster any deep feelings for one, and couldn't quite understand the attachment. It wasn't like the horse was a mabari, although Alistair seemed to think differently. Stupid horse tried to bite her whenever it thought it had a chance.

The horse shook his head with a snort as if it could hear her thoughts from across the courtyard. Alistair wasn't wearing his helmet, he never did – he complained that it hurt his ears and he couldn't see, but she suspected he just didn't want the helmet hair that inevitably followed. Not that a helmet could've done any worse now, his hair was wet and plastered down around his ears. She tried to read his expression, but for once his boyish, handsome face wasn't giving anything away.

He wore what she considered his "official" armor instead of riding armor, and it gave a great clank as he dismounted. It didn't mean anything, she told herself, there were a number of reasons for him to wear official armor. But even as she thought that, her mind catalogued all the details, trying to add them up into a whole. There was a small army outside the gates, a full number of personal guard flanking him, and not one, but two standard bearers. She could see several supply carts in the distance. Too many? But as she tried to count them, Alistair began striding towards her, and she lost all focus.

She would let him come to her, she told herself. She would not move. Auria shored up the walls around her, determined not to give her position away. But he was smiling, and that familiar cling-clang of his armor cut right through her – without realizing it she found herself rushing to meet him. His armored arms crushed her to him, and for that one singing moment she was sure he'd come to apologize, to agree with everything she'd written him in her letter. To defy Eamon with her.

But his first words whispered in her ear weren't "I love you", or "You're safe", or "I'm sorry".

Instead, his voice suffused tenderness he murmured, "I forgive you."

The words hit her like a slap. His cold, wet armor cut into her cheek - his chest had become a hard immovable object. It almost made her giggle. She wondered if she'd have the outline of his crest imprinted across her face, like a brand. Another part of her mind, the part that suppressed both giggles and tears, repeated his murmured words over and over again, as if repetition could change their meaning. She knew she should've felt anger, but all she felt was weariness, as if the rain and cold had soaked right into her bones.

"Auria?" Alistair asked, looking down at her, his smile as warm and loving as any kiss could be, breaking through the rain like the sun. She forced herself to turn away from that brightness. How could he have read her letter, and come up with "I forgive you"? Forgave her for what? For the letter itself? For wanting him to defy Eamon? For finally telling him all her hopes and fears?

She extracted herself from his arms, taking a step back. "We're not alone," was all she said.

Alistair looked around him, as if taking in the scene for the first time. She knew he couldn't have been completely unaware of the situation, even dead the darkspawn gave off a residual tactile scent, like rancid fish oil on your fingers.

"Yes, I see I'm too late to join in all the fun. Pity, I rather miss the whole darkspawn killing thing." She smiled at that, like he expected her to. "Where are the Orlesian Wardens?" he asked, looking from side to side, as if he thought they must be somewhere in the courtyard.

"Dead or captured," she replied shortly.

"All of them?" Now Alistair's voice really was shocked, a hidden note of pain underscoring the words. She knew he would be thinking of Duncan, and all the Wardens slain at Ostagar. "Captured? Do they even do that?"

"They do now," Oghren said loudly, stumbling into their little circle of two. Everyone else hung back at a distance, as if awed by Alistair's very presence. "Did she tell you about the talking darkspawn yet? He was THIS big, and uglier than a nug's tits on a bronco. The Warden had to smite him down," Oghren brought his hand down so hard in a chopping motion that he stumbled a few feet. He wavered. "If they start drinking ale, that's it."

"Oghren?" Alistair shook his head in disbelief before turned back to her, eyes searching her face, "Are you okay? You weren't hurt?"

"No, I'm fine." She reached out to touch his hand, and checked herself. "We have a lot to discuss." Her eyes went to the supply carts in the distance. "How long are you staying?"

"A day or two, at most. I wanted to surprise you, and officially welcome the Orlesians to Ferelden. I guess I'm too late for that." His face looked worried, pensive. She wanted to reach out and smooth the lines in his forehead, but kept her hands at her side. His voice faltered for a moment, "A situation has come up at the border, Eamon and I agreed it would be best settled with a King on the field. So…you know, I guess that's me." He stared at the bodies of dead men. He knew as well as she did that they would have to burn them all, without priest or Chantry. There would be some unholy pyres tonight. "They were talking?" he turned his eyes on her, begging her to deny it. "It's not just… Oghren's drinking?"

"They spoke – No, one of them spoke. He led them, Alistair. And…" She glanced around her, realizing the crowd, though giving them space, could still hear their every word. Plus, they were still standing around in the rain. A peal of lightning lit the sky, followed by a slow rumble of thunder. "We should go inside," she turned to motion for Alistair to proceed her inside, but instead hit the Seneschal's chest. "Oh, I'm sorry, Seneschal. I was just suggesting we adjoin to a less wet location."

But the Seneschal had gone down on one knee, head bowed. "My King," he said, his deep voice ringing out. All over the courtyard people fell to their knees, uncaring of the mud and muck, with murmured words of "My King". Auria looked around. It felt surreal, the whole Keep suddenly dropping to their knees like a forest being logged in unison. She felt a sudden desire to yell "Timber!" which made her unintentionally look at Anders.

Anders had not bowed at all. He caught her looking and gave her a one-shoulder shrug and a lifted eyebrow, before turning back to his patients. She could read the lines of frustration in his shoulders, as every able-bodied man stopped in the middle of transferring the injured inside to bow down. It aggravated her that she could still read him, after all these years. That information should've been wiped from her brain. She looked back to find Alistair following her gaze.

Auria quickly knelt also, inclining her head forward in precise measure. If she'd learned anything from Greagoir and Irving, it was how to maneuver the fine balance of power each greeting brought. Alistair was still watching the mage, a curious expression on his face.

…

The Seneschal filled them in as they made their way to the main hall. Some of it was news to her, some she had already surmised. His rundown of the situation was quite thorough, but what impressed her even more was the miraculous cleaning of the main hall – blood and bodies had been replaced by welcoming fires and the assembly of a banquet table. Auria studied the grey-haired man. She wasn't quite sure what to make of him. He obviously knew the area and Vigil's Keep very well – so well, in fact, that he must've been here with Howe, which made him suspect. On the other hand, the Wardens seemed to trust him, and she just _liked_ him, which was rare.

"Your majesty, I have taken the liberty of ordering a banquet in your honor tonight," Seneschal Varel gestured to the long table. "I'm afraid it will pale in comparison to what we would normally offer you, but I hope you find it satisfactory."

"I'm sure I will, thank you very much, Seneschal. It is much more than anyone could expect, in a time such as this," Alistair voice became mournful, "I am very sorry for your losses. I wish we had arrived earlier."

"It was a hard blow." Both men nodded at one another, as if in mutual respect and understanding. This was Varel's home, his men, but by taking the crown Alistair had made them his men as well. He took his duty to the people very seriously, cared for each one, stranger or not. It was just one of the many reasons Auria had supported his claim for the throne.

Now Alistair seemed to war with himself. After a moment of silence, he added, "Will you have any cheese?"

"We will, your majesty," Varel gave a small smile, but kept his manner grave. "I have also taken the liberty of having a few refreshments brought in immediately," he opened a door leading to a large, richly appointed room. The floor was slightly discolored, as if a large rug had been recently removed. Auria supposed it had been, probably bloodied in today's battle. Small plush settees lined with walls, with ominous portraits looking down into the room. A heavy desk took up the far side, and in the center of the room a beautifully carved table sat ringed with ornately upholstered chairs. The table was laden with wine and small plates of food.

"Your majesty," Varel inclined his head, indicating Alistair to the largest and most opulent chair, with intricate wooden arms.

"All this was Howe's? Alistair asked, looking around.

"Yes. We have sold off many of his possessions, to help with the costs of Vigil's Keep – I shall supply you with any information you would like. All sales will, of course, now go through the Warden Commander, as the Arlessa of Amaranthine."

Auria felt a twinge of discomfort at the title. She had declined taking a more political position after the blight, and had immediately regretted her decision, as she and Eamon warred over the unfilled title of Chancellor. This was both a step up, and a step down. It was also, she was sure, completely orchestrated by Eamon to get her out of the castle.

"I am sure you have matters of state to discuss," Varel said, still standing, looking between them. Auria could've laughed at his expression. Well, if no one had heard the rumors of her being the King's mistress before, they all would now, after that show in the courtyard. She glanced at Alistair, who had just wolfed down a hunk of cheese when Varel turned his head to pour the wine.

"Please stay," Auria started to say, but a ringing clash of what sounded like a candelabra crashing to the floor came from outside. Someone swore loudly, and then voices were raised in a shout. The door banged open, followed by the singular distasteful smell of singed hair.

"There you are!" Oghren entered the room. One of his mustached braids was much shorter than the others, and curled black at the ends. "Should've known I'd find you with the food. Don't you have anything besides wine?"

"I'm sorry, your Majesty, Commander, Seneschal," Mhairi ran in after him, bobbing her head to each one of them in turn, "I couldn't stop him." Two guards followed her, one of them with his helmet quite askew.

"Oghren, I told you last night if you caused one more incident…" Varel began in a rumbling tone of command, but Oghren ignored him.

"You're not getting rid of me so easily," Oghren said as both Varel and Mhairi tried to block his path to the table, unsuccessfully.

"It's alright, Varel." Auria pushed a bottle of wine over Oghren's way, not bothering to hand over a glass.

"Me and the Commander, we go way back," Oghren took a swig from the bottle, made a face, and took another swig, "I helped her defeat the blight."

"I find that hard to believe," Mhairi said.

"Hunh, I was fighting monsters when you were no more than a suckling nug. I been through it all, and come out the other side." For a moment his eyes looked haunted, but then he took a long draft from the wine bottle, emptying it. "I came here to join the Grey Wardens," he gave a great belch. "Where's the giant cup? I'll gargle and spit."

"You're not allowed to spit," Alistair said, and Auria gave him a look. He knew quite well what type of response that would get from Oghren.

"That's what I always say," Oghren said, leering at Mhairi, who backed away to the door frame.

Auria cleared her throat. It was a small sound, but it silenced the room. "Before anyone becomes a Grey Warden – gentlemen, can you please leave us, and shut the door? Mhairi, you may stay." The two guards backed their way from the room, bowing themselves out.

Mhairi came forward, excitement shining in her face. She carefully made her way to the opposite side of the table as Oghren.

"Are we to do it now?" she asked, almost breathlessly.

Alistair raised his eyebrow, "I suppose today counts towards the first part. No lack of darkspawn laying about."

"Mhairi, there is still time for you to change your mind. I am sure Alistair…" Auria stopped and corrected herself, "King Alistair, would be happy to let you join his personal guard. You could have a very successful military career. We need people like you."

Mhairi's face was set. "You need people like me _here_, Commander. This is what I've dreamed of. I want to do my part for Ferelden. I want to help," her eyes were shining again. "Now, more than ever, you need me. And," she continued, her eyes falling on Oghren, "you can't accept him and not me."

"Oghren knows the consequences of becoming a Warden," Auria fixed him with a look that abruptly shut him up before he could start up again, "so I won't turn him down. I won't turn you down either, I don't have that luxury. Just know this is a very dangerous path."

"I accept that, Commander," Mhairi said, with a sort of salute.

Auria bowed her head for a moment. She would have to get used to this. To putting people's lives on the line without giving them any foreknowledge of the consequences. Duncan had done it, had done it to her, even. That didn't make it any easier. Would she kill a recruit for backing out? Would there be repercussions if she didn't? She had expected to confer with the Orlesian Commander on protocol.

She felt Alistair's gaze on her, and looked up. It had just been the two of them for so long. Both of them stumbling about in their roles, Alistair hardly knowing more than she did. The only two Grey Wardens in Ferelden. Now here they were, the only two Grey Wardens left, again. Only now Alistair was King and had other duties. He would be leaving in a day. She would have to shoulder this burden alone. Like hot steel being submerged in freezing snow, she hardened herself. She would do what was necessary. She always did.

"Varel," Alistair asked, "do you know if the Orlesian Wardens brought anything with them that they… ah… kept secret?"

Varel gave Oghren a look, "Perhaps a giant cup?"

"Yes, exactly. And other… supplies."

"I do, your majesty. The Orlesians thought it best if someone knew the location of certain… secrets."

Exactly what sort of secrets did the Orlesians entrust to him, Auria wondered. Or maybe it was how much he'd spied out? There was no one here left to say, one way or the other.

"Shall I bring them, now?" he asked.

Auria wanted to say no, to put off the joining for a few days at least. It would cut into the time she had with Alistair and if something happened – her mind shied away from just exactly what the "happened" was – then any time they spent together would be marred. But - it was Oghren. Alistair might want to be there. The selfish part didn't care. After everything she'd seen Oghren pour down his throat, she really couldn't believe that this would harm him. And if Mhairi resisted at the end… she didn't want to see Alistair's face when she drove the hilt home. Still, it was _Oghren_.

Auria met Alistair's eyes. They didn't need words for her to ask the question.

"Tomorrow," he said, finally. "We'll do it tomorrow." He reached out and took her hand. "I can stay an extra day."

The touch of his hand kindled her like fire, setting off a flame that burned through her and made her realize just how long it had been since they'd been alone. She felt Alistair notice, the grip of his hand becoming at once more firm and more caressing, as if he would tug her to him right then. That grip woke something feral in her, and for the moment she didn't care why he was there, or why he thought _she_ should be the one apologizing. It was as if the rest of the world blurred, but every detail of Alistair sharpened – the plane of his jaw, the line of his neck as it disappeared into his armor, the quickening of his breath as he looked at her. She slid to the edge of her chair, completely unaware of the sinuous way her body moved with just that small action.

Varel cleared his throat.

"Shhhh," Oghren growled at him, "This is the good part."

Auria looked up, the rest of the room coming into focus again. Mhairi stood transfixed by the door, Varel looked both discomfited and amused, and Oghren… well, Oghren just looked like Oghren.

"Damn, you ruined it," he said. "And she had a headache today, too."

"You did?" Alistair asked, not letting go of her hand. She could hear both anticipation and concern in his voice.

Auria grimaced. She hated everyone knowing her business, but couldn't seem to keep people out of it. The headaches always came after battle, and woke voracious appetites in her. Most her traveling companions had just focused on the one appetite, however. Oghren seemed to find it endlessly amusing.

"Your Majesty, Commander," Varel said in his deep voice, "If you don't need me, I have duties to attend to."

"Yes, of course," Alistair said, standing.

Varel bowed himself out, Mhairi following.

"Don't mind me," Oghren said, testing out a chair. "They make these too sodding high," he grumbled.

Alistair looked pointedly at her, as if to say, you invited him, you get rid of him.

"Oghren," Auria said, and then a little more firmly, "Oghren."

"Ehh, what? Cramping your style? It's nothing I haven't seen or heard before."

"Oh, really?" Auria said, unfastening the side of her armor. "Okay then, just be quiet. No commentary." She removed the breast plate, so she was just in her battle robe. "Here, you might need this. If we break the table, you can use it to block shrapnel," she held out the armored plate to him. "Or if things get too messy," she added, as if as an afterthought, "they have a very nice selection of pickled eel here."

"Uhh, what? Commander, no offense, but sometimes you're sicker than a bronto on lyrium dust." He slid out of the overstuffed chair. "I don't know how you humans drink this piss you call wine. I'm going to find some real drink."

They were silent a few moments as the door closed, the room seeming to thicken with a tangible stillness. Then Alistair came up behind her and slid his arms around her waist.

"Alistair, we have to talk," she said, even as she leaned back into his arms. She wished he'd taken off the damned armor. "I have to tell you about this darkspawn, and we need to talk about what happened… before."

"We do," he agreed. "Was the headache worse today, or better?"

She sighed, closing her eyes. She really didn't want to talk about this.

The strange vice-like headaches had started in Lothering. They weren't too bad at first. Chalking it up to just another wonderful Grey Warden side effect, she'd dismissed them and the unnatural hunger that inevitably came with them. Especially after Alistair neatly gave her an excuse for devouring three spitted rabbits before they'd even finished cooking. As she'd cracked the last bone and sucked out the marrow, Alistair had clapped, congratulating her on acquiring the famous Grey Warden appetite. He'd also said it was a good thing she was so active, if she remembered rightly. His arm had been bruised for days afterward.

But instead of lessening with time, the headaches had intensified and the voracious appetites they woke in her multiplied. She'd refused to give in, finding a sort of power in denial of the pain, in spurning the needs of her body. Without knowing it, she'd become very much like the freezing cold lance of ice she wielded with such ease.

Wynne, a spirit mage they had traveled with (and who had an opinion on absolutely everything) had declared in no uncertain terms that blood magic was killing her. If not her body, then her spirit. Auria didn't agree. But then, she hadn't agreed with much Wynne said. Alistair, on the other hand, by turns scoffed and worried. He wanted her to get a second opinion, but it wasn't like she could run around telling all the mages she used blood magic, even if she was the Warden Commander, Hero of Ferelden. The only person she could think to ask was Avernus, another blood mage, but she didn't trust him. She wasn't sure if drinking those damned potions of his had been a good idea, and she wasn't sure she wanted him knowing her secrets.

Alistair kissed her neck now, and that pulse of warmth from his lips sent a jolt coursing through her body, as if she were a lightning rod and he the lightning. He'd misinterpreted her control as shyness back then, and had tentatively wooed her. He'd even used the word woo. Just the memory of that made her smile, softening her like butter on a warm day. Not that he'd minded once the effects of her battle-lust headache became known, that is, not once she promised to only slake those lusts with him. The thought pained her now, and she pulled away from his hold. She wished things were still as simple as they had been then.

"The headache was the same," she answered, a trifle too shortly.

"Auria, you have to take them seriously."

"Can we not talk about my headaches?"

Alistair nodded, reluctantly. They fell silent again. Auria hated the distance that seemed to span between them, like they were standing on two separate sides of a deep ravine, the only bridge fraying as they watched.

"I've been thinking about you since you left," Alistair said, taking the first step across that precarious bridge, reaching for her hand. "You've no idea how much I missed you." She looked up at him, and he pulled her into the circle of his arms. "You are still the one bright spot in my life. You know that, don't you?"

She did, but she just didn't know what it meant anymore.

"Eamon…" she started.

His face looked pained. "Can we not talk about Eamon?"

Auria pressed her face against his neck, just above his armor. She could feel his pulse. So many things not to talk about. It felt like they were constantly hurting one another, as if they were standing with both weapons drawn while trying to cling together on that shaky, tattered bridge. Alistair sighed and stroked the tangled mess the storm had made of her hair.

"What are you forgiving me for?" she asked all at once, her face still hidden in his neck. A knot of emotion roiled inside her, waiting for his answer. It was slow to come.

"For the way you left me," he said finally, the words almost cracking. She looked up to see the expression on his face, and her lips came too close to his. He kissed her. The world blurred into nonexistence. There was nothing but this, his lips on hers, his mouth insistent and hungry, as if they hadn't kissed this way for weeks. And really, they hadn't. She growled in frustration as her fingers slipped on the fastening of his armor. She wanted it off him, now.

It took too long to get him free of the metal shell, and by the time his armor lay on the floor, she was far too aware of his clothing. Under the padding for the armor he wasn't wearing simple garments, the kind one would usually wear knowing they would be sweated and stained through by the end of day. He was wearing a fine, intricately embroidered shirt, with matching trousers. They were indeed sweated and stained through, but they were still kingly clothes.

"You weren't wearing those for me?" she asked, but it was more of a statement. "For the Orlesians? I don't think the Wardens would be impressed by the state of your dress, even if they are Orlesian."

Alistair didn't say anything.

"So it wasn't for us," her eyes scanned his face, trying to read denial. There was none. "Who were you expecting to see tonight?" Her words were deceptively soft.

"I had to see you," he said, reaching out to touch her cheek. She held his hand there, pressing it against her, as if its warmth could stop the cold that was now penetrating her.

"Who were you supposed to see?" she insisted.

He hesitated. "A situation has come up."

"You said that earlier," she said, letting his hand drop.

"Yes, well, that doesn't stop it from being true."

"Those aren't battle clothes." They stared at each other. "Or are they? The show of arms, the fancy dress, the supply trains are what, laden with gifts?" She hated the sour ring in her voice.

"Auria, does it matter? I came to see you. I wasn't even supposed to stop here."

"But it was on the way?" she asked, a little too bitterly.

"Out of the way, actually. I thought my idea of greeting the Orlesian Wardens a clever excuse."

"You're making excuses up for Eamon, now?"

"An excuse for _you_," Alistair said, anger surging in his voice. "You're the one who left like… I didn't know…" he waved his hands around in the air, as if they would help make his point. "I came to see you, find you attacked by darkspawn and all the Wardens dead, and you won't even give me five minutes peace to be thankful you're alive," his voice cracked on the last word, as if anger and tears were far too closely related.

Auria looked at him, as if seeing him for the first time that day. There were dark circles under his eyes, and his face was pale under his tan, tired and exhausted and afraid of what he would find. She wondered how fast and how long he'd ridden to get out here to her.

"You just want five minutes… peace?" she asked, a smile playing about her lips.

"Well, it would be a start. I'm willing to negotiate from there," he smiled back, a little of the tenseness lifting from his face.

"How firm are your negotiations?"

"Come here, and you'll find out," Alistair said, raising an eyebrow at her. She slid into his arms, and he clasped her tight to him. She grasped him back, almost afraid to let go or even move to do anything more. But there was something bothering her. Two things, actually.

"I didn't leave," she said, lips tilting up to his ear so he would hear her.

She felt a tremor run through him as her breath tickled his ear, his body responding to her. His response sent a corresponding shiver through her, a tug that started at her toes and left her gasping.

"I'd say that's very firm," she said breathlessly, her mouth instinctively turning up to meet his. His mouth covered hers, and the world seemed to go up in exquisitely torturous flames, fire licking through her veins until she felt herself tearing at his elegantly embroidered clothes.

One lucid moment later, she thought to ask the second thing that had been bothering her, "Did you read my letter?" But then he had her clothes off as well, his mouth traveling hotly down her skin, and she wasn't aware when he answered, "What letter?"

It was some time later that Auria dimly realized she was on the floor, her arm cramping and her leg asleep. Her neck was stiff, crooked at an angle to pillow her head on Alistair's chest. Something had woken her up. She had been asleep? Andraste's ass! How could they have fallen asleep? She groaned out loud. Way to start her role as Arlessa. She started scrabbling for her clothes when the noise that woke her came again.

"Auria!" someone called her name. There was frantic pounding on the door, then sounds of a scuffle, then more pounding. Finally a panicked voice called out, "Blast it, Auria, open the Maker-forsaken door! Templars! Help!"

All traces of sleep left her. That was Anders. Shaking Alistair awake and wishing she hadn't torn quite so many buttons from his shirt, she scrambled to her feet. She knew that other voice too. Rylock had come to the Keep.


	9. Chapter 9

_Vigil's Keep, Amaranthine_

Anders pounded furiously on the thick wooden door. This was getting ridiculous. Maybe he should just go ahead and let Rylock take him, save him the trial of whatever else this day decided to throw at him. He rapped urgently on the door again. What was taking Auria so long? No, he didn't want to think about that. Probably a good thing that between his lack of mana and the range of Rylock's cleansing spells, he didn't have enough casting strength to open the door himself.

"You will cease that at once!" A guard said, grabbing his arm. "You are disturbing the King!"

Anders continued knocking with his free hand, "Well, those templars are about to disturb me."

Rylock would have to show up just as he was about to have a pint. He'd finally found a chair, a drink and a warm fire to dry himself by, even someone that didn't try to edge away from him in like he was about to demand their first born. Just as he was lifting his mug the old medic next to him murmured tersely, "Templars." Anders had turned just in time to meet Rylock's gaze from across the room. Her eyes were fervent, the whites strangely altered by the reflected flames from the fires. It had been a split second decision to head to the room where Auria and the King had secluded themselves. The room he'd been trying to ignore all evening. He wasn't sure what he thought Auria could do. Convince the King to send him back with different templars, or soldiers, or anything, just so long as Rylock wasn't the one in charge of him.

Right now Rylock was wading through a pack of dogs. Literally. He'd knocked a plate of smoked meats to the floor as he leapt away, and the hounds had fallen to it with a frenzy, as any good pack would. They wouldn't slow her down for long, although it did give him some satisfaction to see one of her compatriots bowled over, lost for a few moments under the legs of the single mabari in the group.

The guard holding his arm shook him, trying to grasp his other hand. "Auria!" Anders called out, and then was knocked to the floor, all the breath leaving his lungs.

"Hold him!" Rylock ordered, "Maleficar! You won't be allowed to kill more innocents!"

The words had quite a different effect from her intention. The guard pinning him down immediately scrabbled away, as if he thought just a touch would strike him dead. Anders looked up and down the room, but there was no place else to go. Rylock strode forward, kicking the last dog aside.

"You will come with me, murderer," Rylock said, standing in front of him. Her hair was drawn back too tightly, making a skeleton of her hollow face. "You'll hang this time." She clamped an iron grip on his wrist, yanking him forward. Damn it, where was a King when you needed one?

"Rylock." Auria said from behind him, steel in her voice. "Unhand the mage." Anders almost sagged in relief. Not that he couldn't have escaped again as soon as he wanted to. But it was such a bother. Also, he wasn't sure he'd actually make it back to the Circle, not with Rylock escorting him.

"You." A twisted look of anger crossed Rylock's face, but for once it wasn't directed at him.

"Me."

The air seemed to crackle and grow thick, like a hot night on the eve of a thunderstorm. The two women stared at each other. Anders had the distinct feeling something completely unknown to him was going on here.

"You should be drawn and quartered for what you've done. They should spread your ashes over the blighted land and salt the earth."

Anders blinked back surprise. He hadn't known Rylock could hate anyone more than him. Ah. It came to him. Auria had asked a boon – to free the mages.

"Maybe," Auria replied, "But you won't be the one to do it. _Unhand the mage_."

Rylock laughed. It was a horrible, tinny sound. "You forget yourself."

"I don't think I do," Auria replied, leveling her staff. Anders saw the wickedly sharpened half moon up close for the first time.

"Hmm. Cleansing spell or razor-edged steel? I think I'm going to have to go with the steel on this one," Anders said. The two templars flanking Rylock looked anxiously back and forth, as if they weren't sure they what they should be doing. To smite, or not to smite? He wondered what Rylock's signal was. Both women ignored him. "Maybe I'll just wait over here while you two sort this out." Rylock didn't spare him a glance. She still had a grip on his wrist, and it throbbed painfully.

"Greagoir might have been cowed into letting you roam free, but I know what you are," Rylock's voice rang with pietistic anger. "Maleficar," she said the word as if were an ugly, cankerous sore that made her ill. "A new holy regime is coming to the templars, and then we'll see who has _dispensation_," the word twisted on her lips.

"I await the day," Auria said, the menace in those simple words making Anders turn to look at her. He had seen her today, deadly as a hunting cat, all grace and sleek movements as she struck down the darkspawn. He'd seen her exhilaration during battle, the way she leapt with controlled ferocity and drove the sword deep into their leader's heart. He'd seen how she'd changed from the laughing girl he remembered into someone disciplined and formidable. But he hadn't seen this – not this threatening malevolence, as if she would like nothing more than to slit Rylock's throat and he was just an excuse for her to do it. He suddenly wondered if she was trying to save him because of _him_, or because he was someone Rylock wanted.

There had been many times he'd dreamed of Rylock's death, but they were just dreams. As much as he hated her, he would never really wish her more harm than say, falling in a ditch and breaking her leg. Something she'd be forced to go to a mage healer for – that in itself would be a wonderful punishment. But as he stood there, trapped between them, he knew this would be no broken leg. One of them would be dead, along with those (including him), who were caught in the crossfire. And it would be all is fault.

As Rylock let go of his wrist, about to raise her hands to smite them down, Anders stepped between them.

"It's alright, I'll go back to the Circle," he acquiesced. Rylock gave a satisfied sound and grasped him, yanking him back. She would have to grab his wrist in the same place. He would probably have a bruise. "I'll just escape again, anyway," he said derisively.

"Who's escaping?" Oghren blundered his way into them, shoving aside the two mute templars flanking Rylock. "Ooo, Warden, you have that look on your face again. Which one is it, the mage or the templar? Are we gonna kill them?" He elbowed Rylock, "You should see her throw a dagger," he whispered conspiratorially. Anders glanced at Auria. She did look particularly feral, her body tensed as if about to spring.

Rylock ignored the dwarf, twisting his wrist painfully. "I'll see you hanged for what you've done, murderer."

"Murderer?" He asked, and heard his voice twinned.

The King stood framed in the open door. "Auria," he said softly, laying a hand on her shoulder. Auria relaxed her staff, some of the tenseness leaving her body.

"Your majesty," Rylock gave an almost imperceptible nod. "This man is a dangerous criminal."

"The dwarf? He's a bit of an ass, but…"

"She means me," Anders said, showing the wrist imprisoned by Rylock's grip as best he could.

"This man is a maleficar and a murderer," Rylock's voice was venomous, twisting the words to sound even worse than they were.

"How many times do I need to say this? I did not kill those templars! They were… Oh, what's the use. You won't even believe me when I say I'm not a blood mage."

Rylock's gaze turned to Auria, a zealous intensity in her eyes.

"Enough," Auria said, stopping Rylock from speaking. "You will not accost a guest in my Keep."

"A guest," Rylock sneered, "He is an apostate. He will face justice."

"Oh please, the things you people know about justice would fit into a thimble." Anders rolled his eyes. He'd experienced her justice before. A year locked in a dungeon so deep the walls were damp and the only light came from the odd flickering candle he was sometimes left. "Oww, hey," he grimaced as Rylock's grip tightened.

"Tell him your name, go on tell him," Oghren drunkenly encouraged, as if he was completely unaware of the drama unfolding around him. Then before anyone could answer he added, "Anders. It's Anders. Isn't that a kick in the pants?"

"Anders?" Alistair asked, looking between them.

Great. Anders sighed inwardly. Well, he'd asked how the day could get any worse. He supposed now the King would throw him to the templars, just for spite.

"It's really him?" Alistair asked again.

"Yes," Auria answered. She touched his hand. Anders couldn't understand the look the passed between them. It was something intimate, something that left him firmly on the outside, as if he were looking through a window into someone's home.

"You are the Warden Commander," Alistair said gently, as if offering a gift he wasn't sure he wanted to give away.

"I am," Auria replied back, not looking away from Alistair's face. Anders was the one who had to look away, feeling like he was spying on an intimate moment even though they weren't touching. The dwarf stared avidly at them, obviously feeling no compunction himself.

"I hereby conscript this mage into the Grey Wardens," Auria said. Anders thought he detected a small note of triumph in her voice.

"What? Never," Rylock denied. Anders nearly fell to his knees at the sudden squeezing pressure applied to his arm. One part of his mind wondered if she would break it, the other just repeated over and over, 'grey warden'. He wasn't sure what he thought about that.

"You can't," Rylock said, motioning to her flunkies. The two templars flanking her stepped closer, the fervent light in their eyes matching hers.

"I can. The chantry has no say over the Wardens. Let him go."

Rylock didn't release him. "He will face justice."

"Then he will face a King's justice," Alistair replied. "I believe the Wardens still retain the right of conscription. I will allow it."

Rylock nearly pushed him into Auria, her voice pitched so low only they could hear it. "I will see both of you hanged before this is over. You will not control the King forever." She took a step back, again giving Alistair the barest of nods. "If your majesty feels this is best. I will be staying until the event occurs." Without waiting to be dismissed from his presence she strode away, the two templars trailing after her.

"What was that last bit about?" Anders asked, but Auria wasn't listening to him. Instead she was looking at Alistair. Anders had to admit – the King _was_ relatively handsome. And, more's the pity, he actually seemed like a decent fellow. He supposed he should be happy for Auria. Then he noticed all the missing buttons down the front of the King's shirt, and how Auria's hair looked just a little more mussed than it had been before.

"Give it up, kid," Oghren chortled. He pulled a second flask out from somewhere on his person. "Here, to the Grey Wardens!"

Anders hesitantly tipped the flask to his lips. It burned down his throat. "To the Grey Wardens," he rasped. "Me, a Grey Warden," he said in wonderment, more to himself than the dwarf, who seemed intently occupied in emptying his flask. The more he thought about it, the more he liked it. The Grey Wardens were sort of free, weren't they? Above all laws, an entity unto themselves? And their purpose was to help people. "I guess that'll work!" he declared, and took another swig. The liquor warmed him all the way to his toes. His wrist didn't even hurt anymore.

"Like my special brew, hunh? It was in the weapons room, the darkspawn hadn't even touched it." He raised his flask and they both drank again. "Heh, you're alright, sparklefingers. Oooh, smell that. Smells like roast nug!" Oghren stumbled off toward the kitchens, where they probably were not allowed. Not like that'd stopped him before, but…

Anders glanced around. Auria and Alistair stood close together, their voices a low murmur. He didn't see where Rylock had gone.

He shrugged to himself. Might as well follow Oghren. Whatever was in the alcohol made him feel pleasantly disconnected and he didn't see how the night could get much worse. He rather regretted that decision in the morning.

.~.~.~.~.

The Hall hummed with frenetic energy, as if people were determined to revel in their survival whether they wanted to or not. Every hearth in the room had been lit, along with every sconce and candelabra. They illuminated some very dire paintings. Auria wondered just what sort of people the Howe's had been. All their portraits seemed to scowl down at her, and she almost expected them to start pointing fingers and calling out, "Maleficar!" Which reminded her – just how _had_ Rylock known of her blood magic? Did all the templars know? She didn't think her companions would give away the secret, not even Oghren. But Wynne... It could be possible Wynne told Irving 'for her own good'… she didn't like that train of thought.

Except for the paintings, the room almost seemed festive. Cheery even, in the face of what today had held. She was again impressed by the seneschal's ability to pull things together so quickly. Two banquet tables had been arranged, already laden with a fair amount of food. It seemed Vigil's Keep didn't stand on formality – people were already eating the cold meats and cheeses, though none sat at the tables themselves.

Alistair took her hand, bringing her back to herself. It gave her a wry sense of amusement. Away from Eamon and the castle he suddenly had no problem with public affection. Or maybe it was the fact in another day he'd be leaving her alone to fight a new type of darkspawn, while he was off somewhere in fancy clothes distributing gifts Ferelden probably couldn't afford. There was only one reason why Eamon would encourage depleting Ferelden's coffers that way, and she didn't like it.

"Slaying a templar on the first day might not be the best way to go about things," Alistair said, "you might want to wait until your second day. Just a suggestion."

"You know me, I like to kill as many as possible on the first day, saves time later. You could've dressed a little faster."

"I was _sleeping_. You can't just throw clothes at a sleeping man and expect him to know what's going on. And you ripped the buttons from my shirt." He smoothed his hand down the front of his shirt. It was both wrinkled and lacking several buttons. "What was all that about anyway? Ser Rylock's always been nice enough when I ran into her at the castle. But that look in her eye?" He shivered. "Someone woke up on the wrong side of crazy. Guess she didn't like your choice of boon."

"The only thing she would like is if I asked for the Right of Annulment and stood inside the Tower as it was carried out. Nice is not a word I would use of to describe Rylock. And she…" Auria wavered. Should she tell him Rylock knew her secret? A part of her wanted to. It would be a relief to share her fears with him. But another part of her whispered to wait. If it hadn't started with Wynne, there was one other possibility that came to mind. She would need proof. "And she has always particularly hated Anders."

Alistair gave an assessing look at the mage in question. "So that's Anders? He doesn't look that tall. Or that dead. Although if he continues drinking with Oghren, that might be remedied by morning."

"Alistair."

"Sorry. It's just you said he was tall. I had this picture in my head. Instead he's all magey, with a ponytail."

"I told you he had a ponytail, before."

"Yes, exactly! How long has it been since he's changed his hairstyle?"

Auria gave a pointed look at Alistair's hair. He'd made some sort of effort to spike it up again after the rain had flattened it.

"It's not the same thing. I'm the King, people expect me to look a certain way. It might confuse them if I changed."

"Your point is invalid anyway. Anders has changed his hair. It used to be longer, with braids leading into the ponytail, and he didn't have those little wisps that fall forward."

"Oh? Remember his hair in detail, do you?"

"My memory is a curse. Want me to tell you everything you said when we first met? Ser- I'm-Not-Some-Drooling-Lecher? I also distinctly remember you mentioning a dress…"

"No, no, that's quite alright. You promised to stop bringing that up. How is he alive?" Alistair asked, changing the subject. "We searched and you had that earring and… They lied to my face!" Alistair sounded affronted. He still thought the best of people, even after all they had been through.

"That's why we searched in the first place, because they're both lying sons of whores." Alistair gave her a look. She knew he hated it when she swore. "I don't know how he got here, or how he's alive. We were a little busy to stop and chat." She kept her eyes firmly on Alistair, not looking to where she knew Anders stood at this moment, stupidly drinking from one of Oghren's flasks. She could've warned him, but better he learn the lesson first hand.

"So he's been alive all this time? Is he…" Alistair lowered his voice, "you know, a blood mage?"

"I doubt it. He's a healer. And he's always hated blood magic." She couldn't keep that little twist from her voice.

"But you said you became a… you know… to save him. He doesn't know?"

Auria shook her head mutely. He didn't know. But he would find out soon enough if he was to be one of her Wardens. If he survived the joining. There'd also been three recruits at her joining. She'd been the only one to make it. Auria tried not to think of Daveth, but she kept picturing Anders falling, eyes rolling back in his head, just as Daveth had done.

"It's not evil, you know, what you do. You save people. You saved all of Ferelden." Alistair tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. "You showed me that." His voice turned light. "And I'll remind you every day, if I have to. It's a hard job, but I think I'm up for it."

Auria couldn't help herself. She giggled.

"What?" he asked. Auria just raised an eyebrow. "Oh. _Oh._ I didn't mean…" A red flush spread over Alistair's cheeks. It made Auria laugh harder. He could still be embarrassed so easily. "You're a wicked woman, you know that?"

"I thought you just said I wasn't evil?"

"I was obviously delusional a moment ago." A curious expression came over Alistair's face. "Wait. He was the mage in the courtyard. The one you were looking at, who didn't kneel with everyone else."

Auria didn't answer. Anything she said would sound like an excuse, as if she was trying to defend him.

"Soooo, your great love returns from the dead, looking fairly good for a corpse. Should I be worried?" Alistair's voice was teasing, but Auria could hear a hint of insecurity below the surface. It struck a nerve she didn't know she had, anger blazing up suddenly like fire on dry tinder.

"Should I be worried about this 'field' you're about to take? Or is it fields, plural?" Auria turned the question on him, and then instantly regretted her sharp words as her flare of anger died out. She hated seeing that hurt expression on his face. "I'm sorry, I didn't mean..."

"What, didn't mean you think the apple doesn't fall far from the tree? Like father, like brother, like me. I get it."

"Alistair."

"No, you're right," he said, and then quickly continued seeing the look on her face, "Not about _that_. I mean, yes, I'm going to forge alliances. But that's all it is. You know there's unrest in the Free Marches. We need more formal agreements. Even you have to agree with Eamon on that."

"I do agree," Auria said, trying to find the words to tell him her fears without him feeling that she was attacking Eamon again.

She had believed Eamon to be a good man, one who truly wanted the best for Ferelden no matter what he thought of her. Now she wasn't so sure. Maybe he'd always craved power, or maybe he'd changed. She'd heard the death of a child could do that to a person. Not like she would ever experience that for herself. Small mercies.

Whatever the reason, the truth was that Eamon now posited himself as Uncle to the crown. Nevermind that he had been Cailan's uncle on his mother's side, not his father's, and shared no actual blood tie with Alistair. Also forgetting the manner in which he'd "raised" him, and how he'd handed Alistair over to the chantry.

Alistair was only too happy to have someone claim him as family, especially Eamon. It made her heartsick.

"I just feel like there's more going on here. You need to be careful."

"Got it. No running with knives or jumping on the bed."

Auria nodded distractedly – she had just thought of something. "Who has been handling the correspondence to arrange these meetings, you or Eamon?"

"Eamon, but I've read them. Well, most of them." He raised one eyebrow in suspicion. "Is this where you tell me Eamon, Orlais and the Chantry are all conspiring together with the ghost of Loghain?"

"You know Loghain would never conspire with Orlais, dead or alive. And you know my theories on Eamon."

"Auria, Eamon doesn't want to get rid of you, he admires you," Alistair's voice was tender, but a little exasperated. A conversation they'd had a thousand times. "I told you, that's why he lobbied for you to come here – he thought you were the only one for the job."

That's definitely not why, she thought, but looking around she couldn't be sorry she'd come. The room glowed with life. It was something to hold on to. She knew outside these doors lay death. There would be no Andrastian rights for the dead. They would burn before sunrise, if she had her way. But the death didn't matter now, in this moment. The survivors were the important part. That part balanced everything else she had to do along the way to make it possible.

Glancing around the room again she felt their almost palpable need to celebrate life. If she was a betting woman, she'd bet there would be a great number of births in nine months. There was some pain there, but she quickly shut it away.

"Alistair…" she began.

"I know you didn't want to come, and I didn't want you to go, but you have to admit you're the only good choice."

"Alistair…"

"We've been over this. Teagan can't be the Arl of Amaranthine or the Arl of Denerim. Eamon needs him at Redcliffe and he's already the Bann of Rainesfere," Alistair argued. "With all your talk of Eamon, you seem to like his brother well enough. I think I'm getting a complex."

"Alistair, that's not what I was going to say."

"Oh," Alistair looked bashful, "I just thought… Umm, what were you going to say?"

"Why did you say Orlais?"

"Ahhh… What? I don't think I did." He toyed with the empty buttonholes on his shirt. "Look at all these missing buttons. Do you think they'd still be on the floor?"

"You did, you said 'Eamon conspiring with Orlais'."

"Hmm. I guess I did." He frowned down at his lack of buttons. "Do you have a sewing kit?"

"Alistair," Auria laughed half in frustration, half in amusement. "I'm sure you brought more than one shirt."

"But I _like_ this shirt," Alistair said, his voice plaintive.

"You can have it fixed. You're the King, you can do things like that," Auria said. "Who did you expect to meet tonight?" She asked her question from earlier, not really knowing if she wanted to know the answer.

"Uhhh," Alistair gave an embarrassed laugh, "No one actually. I sort of forgot to pack regular clothes. I was in a hurry, and you weren't there to help. I did bring a lot of socks. Nice, thick woolen socks."

Socks. Auria could almost laugh. They were standing here with so much unsaid between them, so much they needed to talk about, and what _were_ they talking about? Socks.

She'd heard whisperings of dances and feasts and hunts before she left. Whisperings that stopped as soon as she walked in the room. She knew Eamon was planning to reinstate court life, most likely with the goal of bringing Alistair in contact with as many noble women as possible. She'd even stumbled across a list of names – by chance or planted by Eamon, she wasn't sure. Either way it was of little consequence. It was obvious the list was Eamon's top choice of nobles for Alistair's wife. He was determined to see Alistair married, and the sooner she was out of the picture the easier it would be to achieve that goal.

But if he was inviting the nobles to Denerim, then why send Alistair out to stabilize alliances? She felt her stomach churn, as if someone was trying to make butter out of her insides. There had been no Orlesian names on that list. And Eamon had tried to stop Alistair from seeing her.

Hazarding a guess, she said, "I'm sure the Empress of Orlais will appreciate that."

Alistair looked stricken. So it was true.

"I was going to tell you. I just… I didn't want you giving me that look you're giving me right now. I wanted tonight to be just for us."

Auria felt like she was looking at the room through a cracked plate of glass. Everything looked fractured, off center.

"Say something," Alistair said, reaching for her hand. She didn't resist, but she couldn't return his grasp.

Her voice sounded weak to her ears. "What type of alliance are you hoping to form with her?"

"We want to formalize a treaty, finish what Cailan started before the blight."

"Oh." The glass seemed to fracture further, and Auria tried to make sense out of what she was seeing. It was hard to breathe. Why was it hard to breathe?

Auria was sure Eamon's idea of a treaty and Alistair's idea of a treaty were two completely different things. But he couldn't mean marriage, not to the Empress. It was a foolish, stupid thing to do. She was too powerful, and Ferelden too unstable. Their country would be subsumed into Orlais little by little, a mire no one would be aware of until they were sunk too far to get out. No matter how power-hungry Eamon was, he couldn't be pushing for that, could he? Even a physical relationship would be stupid. If the woman had a Therin heir, even a bastard, Ferelden could be taken in one generation. She knew it would sound like jealousy, but she had to say something.

"I don't know what Eamon has advised, but I don't think it's a good idea to get involved with her," Auria kept her voice as calm and firm as possible. "I'm not saying this out of jealousy. I know the Empress is very powerful and beautiful, but she could be dangerous, both to you and Ferelden."

Alistair looked perplexed. "I don't think she'd harm me. And we'll have armed guard. Doyle is even here with me." Auria breathed a sigh of relief at that. Doyle was a small, sleight man but his unassuming appearance belied a shrewd intellect and a skilled duelist. She hadn't seen him enter the Hall yet, and had worried Eamon stopped him from traveling.

"_Oh_." Auria saw realization break over Alistair's face. "I mean finish the _treaty_, not finish… I don't know that he'd started…" He paused and cleared his throat, "I'm going to talk, that's all."

"I've heard she can be very captivating."

Alistair gave a grin. "Don't worry, raised by dogs, remember? I'm no Cailan. She'll probably just send her Ambassadors anyway." He rocked back and forth on his feet. "Anyway, I doubt she'd be interested in me."

No matter what Alistair thought, Auria was sure the Empress wouldn't pass up this opportunity. Not with an untested King, and a country still recovering from both a blight and a civil war. It would be too tempting. Auria couldn't stop herself from saying, "The Empress might well be interested in you. Would you turn her down?"

"Of course! I'm not _that_ stupid. And I don't want to be with anyone but you." He looked guiltily away from her eyes, the "until I have to" clear as day on his face. This was one conversation they tried never to have, but always seemed to come back to. It haunted their relationship, spinning out ghosts and demons, like a rip in the Fade.

She had convinced him they should stay together, that marriage would never change their love for one another. He had declared he would never let her go, that he would do everything in his power to keep her. But that had been over a year ago, when the thought of an heir and a marriage were unreal, just words in the far distant future. Now those words pressed around them, distorting every future she imagined like she was looking at life from under murky water. Sooner or later the "have to" would occur. Alistair would have a wife. And he would have to try for an heir. The thought sent a sickening panic coursing through her, followed by a clammy heat like the day she'd had sunstroke on the march to Redcliffe. Auria tightened control over her body, willing it all away. She was still as stone. She was a rock. She felt nothing.

"Auria? Is it the headache again?" Alistair asked.

"No, it's nothing."

They wouldn't talk of it now, not here surrounded by all these people. But there were questions she needed answered, like why he'd accused her of leaving, when he was the one who hadn't come to say goodbye. And just what choice he'd made after reading her letter.

Auria let herself be drawn into Alistair's arms, hugging him fiercely as if they were alone, with no one else in the room.

Alistair smiled down at her, his hazel eyes warm and happy. "Thinking about that mage's earring has reminded me of our first night together. Remember, down by the river?"

She smiled back, letting herself remember. "I do."

"You were so beautiful in the moonlight. It was before you had this, but you still looked like an elven goddess come to life," he stroked her hair back from forehead. She'd gotten the tattoo later, after saving the Dalish. "Do you remember what I said to you, after?"

"That you should be struck by lightning?"

He laughed. "No. The other thing."

Auria laid her hand against his cheek. "I love you, too," she whispered, so only he would hear.

She'd been so wrong, so very, very wrong. His marriage would change everything.


	10. Chapter 10

_Vigil's Keep, Amaranthine_

Anders was dreaming.

He was back at home, running through the forest. Branches slapped against his legs and arms, leaving stinging welts. Something was chasing him. He couldn't look back, he couldn't stop to see what it was. He had to get away. Panic coursed through his veins and he ran faster, every breath like a knife in his lungs. It was dark. When had it gotten dark? He ran on blindly. Whatever it was, it was getting closer. He could hear it crashing through the brush behind him. He knew, with the absolute certainty that only comes in dreams, that he had to lead it away from his family. No matter the cost. It was close now, its hot rancid breath on his neck. Any moment claws would rip into his back.

Then he was underwater, flailing. He struggled to the surface, but something pushed him down. Water filled his lungs as he fought for breath. He was drowning. His mind railed. He couldn't drown, he knew how to swim! He'd known how to swim since he was six, his mother's tinkling laughter bright as the water they practiced in. But now his arms and legs wouldn't work. He thrashed about but couldn't tell which way was up and which way was down. The water surged about him, cold as ice, and he was powerless. His ears pounded with the rushing of his blood, and it seemed to be thumping out a word.

Murderer. Murderer. Murderer.

"I'm not a murderer!" he tried to scream. But instead water rushed into his open mouth and an image of a man, really more boy than man, filled his blurry vision. His head was bloody, nearly caved in on one side, dark rivulets running down his young face. The end of Anders' staff was a pulpy, bloody mess. He felt rage and a gleeful satisfaction. No. No. He hadn't felt like that. This wasn't how it happened. But the ruined face looked up at him, its one good eye condemning him. Murderer.

Anders woke, retching.

"Heh, can't hold your liquor, hunh mage?"

It was Oghren's slurring, drunken voice. He was lying on a cold, stone floor. How had he gotten here? Anders' brain felt muzzy. Everything was unclear, and he couldn't bring his memories into focus, let alone string enough words together to ask what had happened. His head throbbed with every small sound, the clank of Oghren's mug like a hammer against iron. Pieces slowly came to him. The templars. Darkspawn. Auria. The King. Rylock. Anders groaned, reliving each memory. His head was like a stone, too heavy to lift.

"What happened?" he asked, finally able to speak. His mouth felt like it had been stuffed with filthy cotton, dry and vile.

"You drank, you passed out, you drank some more, were sick, and then passed out again. That's the short of it." Oghren took a great swig from his mug. The wafting scent of alcohol made Anders' stomach churn. How could the dwarf still be drinking?

"The long of it – you did a pretty fancy light show before you fell off a chair, got slapped by three women, and got a kiss from two. They must've been drunker than you. You also missed the feast, Alistair's speech – heh, be glad for that one – and Auria's look when she found you in the hallway. She had me pull you out of view. Oh, and you missed Doyle's recruitment. He wasn't too happy about that."

Anders tried to flick through his memory, but came up blank. "Doyle?"

"King's man, but if you ask me, he takes his orders from Auria. Sneaking, spying elves."

"He's an elf?"

Anders knew the policy regarding elves had changed, but he didn't realize it had changed enough for the army to accept one as their leader. Although it made sense. Auria was both elf and mage – she had led the armies as Commander during the blight. The people loved her enough to name her 'Hero of Ferelden'. Maybe the days of persecution would fade away into the past. Too late for his nan. She'd died while he was locked up in the Circle. Now the last words he said to her would always be the spiteful, petulant words of a fourteen year old boy insistent on denying his grandmother's wisdom. Anders closed his eyes, rolling his head away from the bright lamp Oghren set on the table. Even that little motion ached.

"Heh. I warned you not to drink the second bottle. You look a little green." Oghren pounded his stomach, "Me, I'm from the stone. Takes a little more than that to knock me off my feet. Here, drink this."

Anders looked suspiciously at the bottle. "What is it?"

"That piss your people call wine. Rinse your mouth out, you stink."

That was a sidesplitter. Oghren exuded such a stench that Anders was surprised the dwarf still had a sense of smell. Still, anything would be better than what he felt like right now. He dragged himself into a sitting position and accepted the bottle.

"Doyle is no elf," Oghren said, as if there hadn't been a break in the conversation. "But he could be. He has that _way_ about him. Trust me, I traveled with one for over a year. Sneaky bastard." There was a note of admiration in his voice that would've made Anders laugh, if he didn't feel as if he'd been pummeled by ten jealous husbands on a really bad day.

"So, you like this Doyle."

"Huh. Maybe you would like him, you're the one wearing a dress. Me, I go for the ladies."

"Just tell me what I missed. What recruitment?"

"Recruitment. Volunteers to gather up the bodies, human and darkspawn. Commander likes to get it done fast. Dead darkspawn are bad enough. Dead rotting darkspawn… ugh." Oghren sloshed down a great mouthful of drink, as if trying to wash away the very idea. "We gathered the bodies, even Alistair, him being a Grey Warden and all."

"What's being a Grey Warden have to do with it?" Anders interrupted.

"Where've you been, under a rock?" Oghren rolled his eyes, "You can't catch the taint if you're a Warden."

He continued on, something about how great he was and how many darkspawn he'd killed, never catching so much as a sneeze. Anders wasn't listening. Immune to the taint. That would make all the difference. Was it some secret spell, done during the joining ritual? Why couldn't they do it for the populace? He thought of all the men and women he'd sent to their deaths by confirming infection from darkspawn. Even worse, he remembered the first time he saw it and did nothing, feeling pity for the man. When he'd come back to check he'd only found bits and pieces of the man's family – the farmer had turned into a ravening ghoul, slaying those around him before disappearing into the forest. It was the small booted shoe that gave him the worst nightmares. If they could stop the taint, make people immune – why did they keep it secret?

"Why don't they share the knowledge, make all of Ferelden immune?" he interrupted Oghren mid-story, something about twenty against one in the Deep Roads.

"Nug-humper. You think it's as easy at that? All the brains leak out of your head when you were on the floor? There's _consequences_." Oghren huffed, "Mages, always thinking you get something for nothing." He swilled down the dregs from his mug, slamming it down on the table with a force that made Anders teeth hurt.

"What sort of consequences?" Anders asked. Just what was he getting himself into?

"Errr… You distracted me. I was telling you about Doyle. He was madder than a bronco with a wild hair up its butt. Was counting on—"

"What sort of consequences?"

"Do you want to hear this or not?" Oghren bristled, giving him that beserker stare. "He was counting on having a second mage, see. More fire, more crowd control, more energy. Instead he had to recruit more volunteers, and now they can't leave – gotta be watched for the taint. And the Commander, she about dropped, lighting all those pyres and trying to keep the humans from rioting. Guards had to hold back people, make 'em stay in the Keep, all of them wailing Andraste this, Andraste that. Topsiders. Just burning your dead isn't enough; you gotta have priests to do it."

"Oghren, _consequences_?"

Oghren just glared. "And then, Rylock comes out like someone lit her short hairs on fire. Screaming about blood mages and pissing on the Maker and some right path that some smug templar has fallen from."

"Pissing on the Maker?" Anders tried to hold in the laughter, it made his head throb. But he couldn't stop it.

"She might've used different words." Oghren shrugged. "She wouldn't shut up, so I had to whack her over the head. Knocked her out clean cold."

"You hit her over the head?" Tears of mirth began to roll down his cheeks.

"You gonna repeat everything I say?"

"No, go on, go on."

"Heh, you'll like this one. That mabari you healed," Oghren started chortling, "he… he… oh, you should've seen it."

"What did he do?"

"He…" Oghren slapped his thigh, laughing so hard no sound came out. "He came up and he... he..." Oghren nearly fell over, shaking with laughter. "Mabaris. They'd be pretty good if they didn't steal your pants." He suddenly sobered up and looked Anders right in the eye. "Always, always watch your pants."

With that, he slumped onto the table, and began to snore, leaving Anders to wonder just what the mabari had done.

…

He contemplated standing up. On one hand, he might be sick again if he moved. On the other hand, nasty-smelling, snoring drunk dwarf. Oghren belched in his sleep. Right. He would try for standing. The room spun a little, but he held his stomach down. Probably because there was nothing left inside it, he thought wryly. He was in some sort of storage room. A store room for ale, it looked like. Oghren would drag him here. He had no way to tell what time it was as there were no windows. It felt like early morning, but he wasn't willing to trust his senses yet.

What consequences had Oghren been referring to? Anders shakily made his way to the door and opened it to find an empty hall. He really had no idea where he was. The Vigil was huge. Picking a direction at random, he set off, sometimes hugging the wall as a stomach churning head-spinning wave of nausea rolled over him. Healer, heal thyself. Unfortunately his mana was completely shot. He began to search through what Oghren had told him, sorting for real information.

Auria had found him drunk and passed out, possibly in a pool of his own sick. Great way to repair their relationship. They'd also needed him for what, some sort of bonfire for the dead? From what he'd seen and heard, Auria was being prudent. He'd never witnessed a person become tainted by touching another dead human, but someone touching dead darkspawn and becoming tainted? Yes, he'd seen that. Whatever the contaminant was it could leak out and spread whether the darkspawn breathed or not. The Keep had been littered with dead bodies and sticky puddles of blood. He wondered if Auria had gone around to each spatter, cleansing each bloodied spot with fire. No wonder she'd nearly collapsed. Another point against him.

And Rylock, Anders began to chuckle again, knocked over the head! If he read Oghren right, 'pissed on the Maker' might translate to 'blasphemer'. Understandable, if there had been no Andrastian rites given to the dead. But, 'right path'? Maybe, righteous path? He wasn't sure who the 'smug templar' might be. Whoever it was, he was on Rylock's list. And not the list for good boys and girls. It was a puzzle. A templar fallen from the righteous path, and 'you won't control the king forever'. Anders just couldn't put them together. His brain was too fuzzy.

Turning the corner he spotted Mhairi sitting in a chair, a book on her lap. She wasn't reading the book, instead she was looking off into the distance, early morning sun lighting her face. At least his senses had been right about that.

"Mhairi," he said, and she jumped.

"I… Excuse me, Ser Mage, I didn't mean any offense. You startled me."

"My apologies, my lady," Anders bowed, and wished he hadn't. His stomach gurgled threateningly. "May I join you?"

"Ahh.. yes, I suppose so," she answered slowly, as if trying to think of a polite way to refuse. Manners, Anders thought to himself, you had to like them, they made things so much easier.

"What are you reading?" he asked, taking the chair next to hers.

Mhairi looked down at the closed book on her lap. She'd been opening and closing its cover absentmindedly. "Oh." There was a long pause. "Nothing, really. I was thinking of last night, and what today will bring."

"The joining?" Anders asked.

"Y…Yes. Do you know anything about it?"

Anders sighed. He'd been going to ask her the same thing. "I know it'll make us immune to the taint. And that there are consequences."

She nodded slowly. "There are consequences to everything. Last night… you weren't there…"

It was a statement of fact, not a condemnation. Anders thought he might like this woman.

"…we had to gather darkspawn blood from the dead creatures," Mhairi continued. "We filled so many vials. It was… disturbing. And then, Andraste forgive us, we burnt their victims without any rites. Ser Rylock was furious. She said we were ripping them from the Maker, cursing them to wander the Fade for eternity. Do you think that's true? Will they still rise up to join the Maker?" Her voice was soft, but twisted with pain. A true believer. Just like his parents.

It was tempting to tell her some platitude, to reassure her with words he didn't believe in. Instead he found himself quietly murmuring back, "I truly don't know."

Her eyes gazed off into the distance, into a horizon that could not yet be seen in the foggy morning light. She seemed about to cry, a little piece of the pedestal she held the Wardens on cracking and washing away.

"Thank you for your honesty," she said, after a while. They sat in a moment of silence, as if they were in a small bubble of the world, watching as it turned from the known into the unknown.

"Do you know what the vials are for?" Anders asked, his words sounding harsh and grating after the quiet moment of solitude.

"It has something to do with the joining, I don't know more than that. The Commander says we aren't allowed to know details until the ritual actually begins."

"Well, isn't that convenient," Anders muttered under his breath.

"What?"

"Nothing. What happened to Rylock?"

"Oh, it was awful. In the commotion someone knocked Ser Rylock unconscious, and then…" she broke off. "It was too awful."

"What happened? I heard a mabari…" he let the statement trail off, hoping she'd continue it.

"You've heard true! They need to contain that dog, and punish its master." She lowered her voice, "Never have I seen a dog urinate on a person like that. And she, a respected Templar!" Mhairi's face was aghast, and Anders had to turn away before he ruined everything by laughing. The dog pissed on Rylock. Actually pissed on Rylock. Oh, he wished he had seen it. He vowed to find some special treat for the mabari, as soon as possible. May her armor smell of dog piss forever, he prayed to the world at large.

"Yes, that is awful," he kept a straight face. "Do you know where the Commander is?"

"I believe…" A slow flush crept up Mhairi's neck, suffusing her face with a rosy glow. "The King had her brought to his chamber, he said she needed tending after her exertions last night."

"You're very pretty when you blush, Mhairi."

"Ser Mage!" Anders smiled as the blush spread

"I'm just being honest, I thought you appreciated it." He smiled wider as he stood, this time kissing her hand instead of bowing. It wouldn't do to be sick now.

"I do, but…" Her color heightened, "We shall be fellow Wardens together."

"Ah, I see. No fraternization within ranks." He winked at her. "Do you know where the King's quarters might be?"

For a moment he thought she wouldn't answer. Then, as if she thought she would regret it, she said, "Upstairs, at least two floors up. I'm not sure where."

"Thank you again," Anders turned, barely giving a glance out the window. The sun would be rising out beyond that white fog; somewhere birds sang and a stream babbled, farmers rose to tend their animals, and animals waited for their feed. Somewhere it was a normal, average day. But not for him.

Vials of darkspawn blood. For the joining. It couldn't be. Once Anders turned the corner, he leaned his forehead against the cool stone of the wall, trying in vain to soothe the thumping, pounding drumbeat that was his head. Blood. Ritual. A searing spasm of pain drove him to his knees and he stayed there, hoping the pain would pass, hoping he was wrong. Because it only sounded like one thing to him. Blood Magic.

* * *

_Somewhere in Northern Ferelden, 9:19 DA_

Hefting the basket onto his shoulder and wishing Nan would teach him a spell that made things lighter, Anders made his way half-heartedly through the dim forest. He hated when the trees grew this close to one another, blotting out the sun from above. It was in this damp and dark that many of the plants and mushrooms he'd been tasked to gather grew, so he trudged on. He would rather be out on the bluffs, near the sea. A few weeks ago the baker's youngest daughter had begun to tend sheep on the green slope, and they'd found many interesting ways in which to keep warm in the salty ocean breeze. He grinned foolishly at the thought, stumbling over a fallen branch.

"Damn it!" he swore, brushing his trousers free of debris. "Sodding forest!" He looked furtively around for his father, but there was no one in sight.

He didn't know why he'd been sent into the forest _again_. There were many useful plants for both dye-making and curatives out on the bluff. He grimaced. Most likely his mother realized just how he'd been spending most his time. She wouldn't want to compromise his secret, or their business arrangement with the flock owner. They counted on his wool too much now that his brother had left.

Anders felt a sharp pang of loss, like someone had stolen his breath away. His family was breaking up. There were only the four of them now: his parents, his nan and himself. And Nan was so old. Her tattoos, once so vibrant he'd thought them paint, were now faded and barely visible on her pale skin. Last night she'd forgotten who he was, speaking to him in another language. It wasn't Orlesian – both his mother and his nan had taught him that, saying he should know the language of his grandfather. So it had to be Elven. Nan never spoke of the time before her marriage, and it both fascinated and scared him that she would revert to the language of her youth now.

A series of scuffs and snapping twigs came off to his left. Anders paused. There were many wild things in this forest. Leaves crackled under someone's – or something's – feet.

"Papa?" He called and then blushed at the use of his childish name for his father. Thank the Maker no one was around to hear _that_. The forest was silent, no answer to his call. Nan insisted he carry the staff she'd carved for him, but he'd left it behind. Carrying the basket was heavy enough. Maybe he could throw it at whatever was out there.

Another set of footsteps came from off to his right. He backed up slowly. Were they surrounding him? Okay, he calmed himself, he'd done magic before without a staff to focus. He could take care of himself. As he set the basket down to ready his defense, a rough hand clasped his shoulder. Anders gave a shriek and jumped, sending the contents of the basket flying into the trees.

His father laughed, a deep chuckling laugh that made it impossible to be mad. He was a handsome, dashing man with a strong jaw and stronger hands. His greenish eyes, like a leaf about to change color with the seasons, were always dancing, crinkled with mirth at the corners; and his thick waving hair refused to be tamed, even with the long tail it was braided into every morning. Anders wished he looked like his father, but instead he took after his mother. He thought her beautiful, but he wanted those glances of admiration and desire his father elicited everywhere they went. He wouldn't be oblivious to them like his father was, especially with the girls…

"Daydreaming again?" his father smiled down at him, a hand still on his shoulder.

Anders tried to keep up a scowl, but he couldn't. "Yes. Daydreaming all these trees turned into dancing girls and then danced off to leave me in sunshine." His father laughed, and tugged at the short, stub of a tail Anders braided his hair into. "Why did we have to come so far into the sod— forest again?" Anders swore silently at himself. Had his father noticed his slip?

But his father wasn't looking at him. Instead he peered off to their left, squinting into the dark space between trees. Anders followed his gaze.

"I heard something from over there, just before you showed up with your creepy, grasping hand."

"Anders," his father intoned automatically. Then he grasped Anders by the upper arm. For a moment he thought his father was being funny, but then he yanked him off to the right, away from the crackling sound of dead leaves.

"The basket!" Anders gasped, as they zigged and zagged wildly through the trees.

"Doesn't matter," his father said shortly, quickening their pace.

"That's what you say now, but wait until Nan—"

"Anders!" His father cut him off with a harsh whisper, "Shhh. They're following. You must be as quiet and fast as possible."

"Who is it?" Anders looked back, but he couldn't see anything in the glowering darkness. Andraste's freckled ass, but he _hated_ the forest. "Are they templars?" he asked with sudden fear.

"If they are, they've taken off or muddied their armor. Go right at the bend, and then into the stream. Try not to splash. Head downstream." His father followed behind him, loosening the strap that held his dagger, and readying his bow.

As he stepped into the water, he heard two thrums of the bowstring, as his father let two arrows fly in quick succession. A cry of pain came from somewhere in the darkness.

"Run!" his father whispered urgently. Anders ran, but it was hard going. The rocks were slippery, covered with slime, and where there weren't rocks the stream bed was soft and mucky, catching at his feet like quicksand. They weren't templars. As long as they weren't templars, it would be okay.

"Should we head off here?" Anders whispered, coming to a panting stop. There wasn't a path, but the forest was thin, and it would be a short run to the meadowed side of the lake, and then to people.

"Yes – climb out on the grassy bank, try not to step in the mud."

Anders did as he was told, and then they were running again, heading for the growing light from beyond the trees.

They came out in a small clearing, one ringed by round stones and dark forbidding trees. A huge flattened stone lay at the very center. Anders looked around confused. They weren't where he thought they'd been at all.

He looked up at his father who seemed just as perplexed. Then he said softly, "We ran upstream."

"No we didn't, we ran…" Anders stopped, the water hadn't been rushing with him, it had been fighting against him. "How?" His father took his arm, inching them away from the circling stones. "Is this like that cult?"

"No, I don't think so." His eyes were fastened on the center stone, and Anders followed his gaze. It was a type of rock he'd never seen before, with vertical striations of dark and light. The striations were strange though, they seemed to follow no pattern, some thick and some thin, some stopping abruptly and some running all the way down to the grass, getting thinner and thinner.

He stopped. He couldn't help himself.

"Anders," his father tugged at his arm, trying to draw him back. Anders didn't move. He couldn't move. No matter how he struggled, he couldn't lift one foot.

He turned his head back in panic, "Papa!"

Even as he cried out, the flickering darkness between the far trees coalesced into a shape, a figure in dark hooded robes, strange abstract symbols glittering on his sleeves. Three pale ragged men came behind him. One carrying a child, the other two dragged a dead man, an arrow sticking out of his chest.

The robed one gestured, and the child was thunked down on top of the tall, flat stone. Anders tried to feel out with his magic, the way Nan taught him, but he couldn't tell if she was breathing. The robed man pulled a wickedly sharp knife out from his voluminous garments, and set it on the rock next to the girl. A blood mage. Anders' own blood ran cold. This was not okay. Nan had explained what they were, but only in the bright morning sun, and never in specifics. He was terrified he was about to witness those specifics now.

His father stepped in front of him, turning his back to the men and sheltering Anders in his arms. "You can't move your feet?" He whispered. "Not even a little?" Anders shook his head against his father's chest. "Hold these for me." His father handed him several arrows. With a quick motion he turned, firing an arrow directly at the robed man. It fell to the ground uselessly. His father swore, using words Anders hadn't realized he knew, and shot another arrow, this time into the man who'd just released the girl. The man staggered back, an arrow sticking out of his side. The bowstring rang again, sending a jarring vibration through Anders' head. This time he got one man in the throat. Blood fountained down his chest, like a red, gushing waterfall.

Anders stomach churned and he looked away – only to look directly into the eyes of mage. He'd thrown back his hood, staring at Anders with a disturbing smile, as if he'd just seen a delicious sugary treat and Anders was the treat. His face was thin, all harsh angles and flat planes except for his mouth – it looked too full and red in his pale face, giving him a strange, off-centered appearance.

The mage didn't seem to care that Anders' father was taking out his henchmen. From the way their ragged clothes hung on them and the hollow-eyed look on their faces, Anders thought it may be a mercy. Still, the healer in him ached to reach out, to save them. Even if he wanted to, he couldn't. He had no power to draw on. He could see it, but it was like the new storefront window the baker put in – in sight, but shut away from all other senses.

"You do me a favor," the mage said. "I get more power from their deaths than I did with their sallow, whining lives." His voice surprised Anders, it was cultured and smooth, at a much lower register than he'd expected.

"You do know black is passé for blood mages, don't you?" His father moved, hiding Anders behind the bulk of his back. "They're all wearing white now – some kind of statement. But I guess you don't get out of dark woods and caves all that often."

The mage glowered, his thin face clouding over like a thunderstorm. "I am from the finest of cities, raised in courts and societies you can't even imagine, peasant. The mere scraps from my clothing are more expensive than your entire existence."

"Ah. Raised, I see. When did they kick you out? Haven't been back in at least ten years, I'd estimate, from the cut of those robes." Out of the side of his mouth, his father whispered, "Keep trying to move."

"From the cut of yours, you were once much better off than you are now," the mage replied, stroking a finger down the handle of his blade. "Had to run off into hiding? Afraid the templars would find your boy?" He laughed as both of them froze. "Only another mage would fall into my little spell here. Do you know glyphs, boy?"

Anders shook his head, even though the mage shouldn't be able to see him behind his father's back.

"Tsk, tsk, what are they teaching you these days?"

"I'm a healer," Anders voice rang out without a quaver, and he felt a rush of pride. It only lasted a moment.

"A healer? Ohh, what luck I have today. A healer." The man chuckled. It was a nasty sound, one that made bile rise up in Anders' throat. "Come here, boy."

His father blocked him, strong arms trying to hold him back. It was no use. Slowly, deliberately, one foot at a time, he stepped closer to the mage.

Letting go, his father made a sudden rush. Like a dog attacking a bear, his father sprung ahead of him, dagger in his hand. He was caught mid-leap, gasping out and dropping his weapon like some great invisible hand gripped him. Anders wanted to cry out, to go to his father, to do anything – but he couldn't. He had no control of his body. He felt the mage's possession snaking around him, oily and rancid, spreading over his surface and soaking into his skin, as if he were the cloth he'd accidentally dropped in the day old bucket of fish guts last week. He was saturated in filth.

"You will be much more useful than these clouts ever were. Do you know about blood magic?" His mouth couldn't move, so Anders didn't answer. "We don't have to kill to gain power. Although it is quicker, and much more enjoyable. I can just drain one's life force – you build it back up in time as long as I don't take too much." Anders was close enough to smell the man's fetid breath, like the breath of a hound only fed on bone and meat. "You're so innocent. And not only a mage, but a healer," his voice was ardent, filled with an avarice that made Anders' skin crawl. "I think I shall keep you."

Anders reached the mage's side. He looked down at the unconscious child, eyes closed as if in sleep. The striations weren't striations at all. They were dried and blackened blood. How many lives had been sacrificed here? A murderous rage filled him – but not for the mage, for the girl. Anders wanted to gag, sickened by his own thoughts, but he didn't even have enough control to do that. He thrashed wildly inside his head, fighting against the man's power, but it was no use. The being, the very essence of what made him _him _was slipping away. He was locked behind that plate glass, just like his power had been earlier, trapped and forced to watch as his hand reached out for the shining sliver blade.

"You know what I gain the most power from?" The mage's silky, low voice whispered into his ear. "An innocent's death at the hand of another innocent, guided by my will. Your agony is like sweet music soaring into my soul. Your corruption more satisfying than any king's feast."

'_You don't have a soul_,' is what Anders wanted to say, but he couldn't. His own face was smiling, gripping the blade, lifting it high above the child's breast. Any moment his hand would plunge down, driving the knife deep into her heart. The girl's eyelids fluttered open.

"Ah, it is so much more pleasing when they are awake. Let us do this slowly. And then, we shall do your father."

This couldn't be happening. He would never take the Maker's or Andraste's name in vain again if they just stopped this. Please, he prayed, please do this one thing. But nothing changed.

He took the soft, trusting hand of the child, and she smiled. The mage had to be controlling her too – she should be screaming, struggling, crying for her parents. Instead she only smiled wider as he pulled her arm out straight. As he watched, his own hand like a stranger's, he pressed the point of the knife into the little girl's inner arm. A drop of blood welled. Anders railed, flinging himself repeatedly at the walls that kept him trapped in his own mind. He couldn't do this, he wouldn't do this! The knife pressed deeper, the drops of blood running down her arm like bloody tears.

Everything happened at once. There was a scream, a thump and a gurgling sound. It was the girl who screamed, a wild piercing cry that seemed to shake the trees. The thump came from before the stone, and, able to turn his head, he saw his father lying crumpled on the grass. The knife clattered to the ground as he ran, tugging his father onto his lap as best he could. "Breathe," he whispered, "Breathe." Anders reached for his power, but it wasn't there. He'd been freed to move, why couldn't he access his magic? He put his ear to his father's chest. His heart still beat, but his breath was shallow.

The gurgling sound had come from the mage. Anders looked up from his father to see the mage's angular face twisted in pain, an arrow sticking out from his eye socket.

The hollow-eyed man, the one who had carried the child, staggered to the stone, reaching out for support. The spot where the arrow used to be gaped, the skin torn open. The whole side of his chest was dark with blood, and he made a wheezing, bubbling sound as he breathed. He coughed, spraying red over the stone alter.

The girl – where was the girl? Anders looked wildly around, finally seeing a golden head disappearing into the tree line. The man, his face like a death-mask, fell against the stone. The sound of his head cracking made Anders retch. Finally in control of his own body, he lost his breakfast and his lunch, emptying the contents of his stomach as if he could empty the contents of his mind with it.

…

There were three bodies, but no sign of the girl. His father regained consciousness and, with a little help from Anders, was soon back on his feet. They searched for the girl, but either she was hiding, or already out of range from their voices. They found small footprints by the muddy bank, and his father insisted that if she made it to the river, she would make it back to people. They couldn't risk following her to a town, she might point out Anders as her attacker. He had, after all, been the one to wield the knife. The thought made Anders' stomach heave. When they arrived back at the house, he knew his parents and grandmother would pray to Andraste, and consider that that. Anders wasn't so sure.

His father also insisted they burn the dead men, sending them up to the Maker, if the Maker so willed. Anders hadn't mastered fire spells, but he could set a bit of dry brush on fire, if he concentrated hard enough. They spent the afternoon building pyres, and then his father recited the Chant of Light over the men, his voice ringing out with a clarity and purity that Anders couldn't muster. He still felt sick and slimy, as if the blood mage had left a greasy residue inside his head.

The mage himself lay in a broken heap, close to the ring of stones, as if he had been trying to escape. The arrow pointed straight to the sky, like some strange death marker. Both Anders and his father skirted around him, unwilling to go to close. Neither one mentioned giving him death rites or a pyre, or even going close enough to retrieve the arrow. His father only muttered, as they left the clearing, "May the Maker curse his soul."

After a few moments, Anders replied, "And may he be forever mocked for his choice in clothing."

"And be forced to wear short pants," his father added.

"And have a _really_ bad haircut."

_

* * *

Vigil's Keep, Amaranthine_

Anders smiled in memory, as he leaned against the cold wall. They'd kept the banter up all the way home. It didn't change the horror they had faced, but it somehow defused it. His father had clapped him on the back as they'd entered the yard. Anders still remembered what he'd said, "Nothing's ever that bad if you're still alive to joke about it at the end of the day." Anders knew that wasn't strictly true, but he had found the world to be a much better place if he never took it quite so seriously.

Thinking of serious, he had to speak to Auria about the vials of darkspawn. He couldn't be party to blood magic, and she knew it.

Climbing the stairs felt like an impossible task. They seemed to loom up into infinity, as if he was attempting to climb the Frostback Mountains. Every few steps he had to sit and rest, waiting for his stomach to settle or his head to stop spinning. At each level he hoped to see guards standing at attention, marking the location of the King's door. At each level he was disappointed. Maybe they were in a completely different wing of the Keep. The world spun as he took his next step, and he slid down the wall. That was absolutely the last time he drank liquor from Oghren. Every part of him ached, and he stank worse than sailors on a three day bender sleeping on the fishing docks. He needed a hot bath and clean clothes. A pretty girl to massage his shoulders. Anders dozed where he sat, lost in his daydream.

Voices woke him.

"…may kill him. If not, we only need bide our time."

"How can you be sure?"

"Are you doubting me? He will die." The voice was familiar, but Anders couldn't place it. Damn Oghren and his liquor.

"But what of..."

The voices faded away as they walked down the hall. Anders stood, but his head spun too much to follow them.

Who was talking? And who was getting killed? And would Auria believe him, if he told her?


	11. Chapter 11

_Author's Note: _May contain slight spoilers for _The Stolen Thron_e, concerning the fate of Arl Rendorn Guerrin, Eamon's father. I don't remember if it was mentioned in game or not. Again, all of this belongs to Bioware, I'm just taking it out for a little spin.

* * *

_Royal Palace, Denerim_

It was nearly noon. Eamon paced back and forth, unable to sit still at the ornately carved desk behind him. The carvings were less extravagant than the desk he'd had made for Alistair, but the desk itself was significantly larger. It wasn't a thing people noticed consciously, but the subtle differences worked in his favor, just like the sizing of the chairs. People wanted to be led. They constantly looked for signs to show who to place their trust in, who to defer to. He'd learned over the years that this deference and power came not only from what one said, but also from the way one commanded himself and his environment. Alistair was a good boy with a kind heart, but wasn't ready to be King. He hadn't been trained for it.

In hindsight, it may have been a mistake not to provide some sort of leadership training for the boy. True, that had been the whole point – they hadn't wanted to encourage ambition or any thoughts for the throne. No one had considered Cailan might die without leaving an heir. Which was why they needed an heir now, a child to secure the continuation of the Therin line.

Eamon sighed, running a hand over his beard. He still wasn't used to its shortened length, but he needed the aura of strength and surety now, not one of a wise old man.

Perhaps he should've encouraged the Chantry to give Alistair more responsibilities, put him in charge of some of his peers. Instead he'd seen how miserably unhappy Alistair was and asked the instructors to go easy on him. It had been a blessing from Andraste the day Duncan's message arrived, informing him that Alistair was to be a Grey Warden. Yet that hadn't worked out either. If only… Well. What was done, was done. He had to salvage the situation as best he could. If that meant turning Alistair into a figurehead for a few years, then that's what he would do. It was for the good of the country and the best thing for Alistair, he promised himself.

Staring out at the yard below, Eamon watched solemnly as people went about their daily business. They laughed, they scowled, they cooked, cleaned, gardened. Looking farther out he could see tiny stands in the distance, their bright canopies flapping in the morning breeze. The market. Peasants and profiteers, merchants and beggars, farmers and fishwives – all vying for their small piece of life. These were the people they fought for; the reason they struggled and sacrificed, made decisions no man should have to make in his lifetime. It was all for them, so that their small day-to-day lives could continue – so that Ferelden could continue. His father had died fighting for this freedom.

Eamon rested a hand against the window pane. He hadn't thought of his father in a long time. It still hurt, if he thought about it, made him feel about fifteen again. A son is never prepared to lose his father. Eamon's throat tightened, and he had to turn away from the bright of the sunlight. Even more so, a father is never prepared to lose his son.

Alistair could not be trusted with the Kingship, not yet. Not until he ended his dependence on that woman. No matter what Alistair thought, Eamon knew the truth. Her heart was a black as the Black City itself.

She killed his son, his only son, and left his wife a broken woman. A father should not outlive his child.

"My Lord Chancellor?" There was a swift knock on the door. Eamon blinked rapidly several times, trying to clear his eyes of the water that had unwillingly welled there.

When the colorful tents of the market sharpened into view again, he answered, "You may enter."

The man entering breathed sharply, as if he had just run up all the flights to reach Eamon's study. Perhaps he had.

"Chancellor," the man bowed his head.

Eamon nodded back. That title had been hard won. He had wrung the position from Alistair before his departure, lobbying as soon as that woman had left the city. She may have been indispensable during the blight, but reconstruction held no place for her destructive tactics. She knew nothing of running a country. Let Ferelden see the mess she made of Amaranthine, let them see the folly of giving the mages freedom.

"Yes?" He moved to sit, leaving the man wheezing in front of him.

"We just received word that the King has changed his route, and has turned toward Amaranthine. Did you want to send any reply back?"

Eamon hid his grimace. So, he had turned north after all. "No. No reply. The King is officially welcoming the Orlesian Wardens to Ferelden, as we had discussed. However, you may take these for delivery," Eamon took several scrolls from his desk and handed them to the messenger. He'd been prepared for such an eventuality.

"Immediately," the man bowed, but hesitated before leaving.

"You may go."

After the door closed Eamon leaned back in his chair. It wobbled, as if it sat on uneven planking. _She_ had done this. He knew it. She blocked every move he made, even going so far as to complain of his desk and choice of rooms. When Alistair didn't give in to her, she'd spelled his chair in some way. No one could fix it. And now she drew Alistair to her, even after all his cautioning.

Auria Surana. Her surname wasn't even a family name, just a name given to her when she entered into the care of the Templars. She had been quite the student when she was young, they told him. Pliable and eager to learn. Somewhere along the line she'd become insubordinate and deceitful, trying to spread strange ideas of justice and the rights of mages. A number of templars had confided in him, detailing not only her sexual exploits but that of her release into the Grey Warden's care. It was no wonder she let that murderous blood mage go, setting him free before she bothered to check on the rest of Redcliffe Castle. They had been partners in planning the theft of their phylacteries, and partners in the murdering of his son.

Eamon rested his head in his hands. His son was dead, and he would never have another child, not of his own flesh and blood. A great stone of sorrow sat inside him, one he knew he would carry for all of his days. There would be no lessening of burdens. Teagan had turned against him, and Isolde cried every time he touched her, falling into his arms with incoherent apologies and great hiccupping sobs. She was pale and wan, spending most her time sitting in their son's room, rocking back and forth. She still cried out Connor's name in the middle of the night. He did more harm than good, causing her guilt whenever she saw him. He didn't blame her. It had been Auria's hand that slashed their son's throat with such savage brutality. Even his own guards whispered of the unrecognizable bloody mess she'd left. Turning his Connor into so much meat. She hadn't even bothered to cover up her atrocity, instead reveling in Isolde's despair at the sight of her son's body.

He had known nothing of this when he woke from his poisonous slumber, thanking Auria for her bravery and perilous journey to save his life. Isolde had sobbed on his chest, not saying a word, and he'd thought she'd cried in happiness to have him back. That thought twisted him now. He had never done a harder thing than he did that night, setting aside all his raging emotions to concentrate on Ferelden.

When he'd fallen ill they still had a King and a whole unified country. He awoke to a civil war ripping them apart, a blight rampaging like a wildfire, a dead king, broken family, and only two Wardens left in Ferelden. They were the only hope for a future – the boy who'd been too soft to stand up for himself, and the woman who'd gleefully murdered his son and set a maleficar free.

He'd encouraged and helped them for the good of Ferelden, because he was a Guerrin, and that was what a Guerrin did – but every time he looked into Auria's eyes he saw her smiling as she struck down his son.

Eamon felt the blood surge in his veins, flooding into his chest with a tightness that squeezed at his heart. She would pay for that. He could be patient, but she _would_ pay. Disentangling Alistair from her tentacles was the first step.

Loghain hadn't been far from the truth on the day of the Landsmeet. Auria twisted her will around Alistair like a snake around its prey, convincing him to challenge laws and encouraging breaks in tradition. Death and carnage couldn't satisfy her; she wanted to tear down the foundation of Ferelden brick by brick, remaking it in her own image. Freeing the mages had only been the start. She truly was the puppeteer, and Alistair her puppet. A muscle ticked in Eamon's jaw. What they really needed was an heir, one that he could train up correctly. From the new information he'd acquired, that was the one thing that would voluntarily drive her away.

Eamon ran his fingertips under the top of the desk. There, a tiny indentation. He pressed it while pulling the section forward. With an audible click, a small drawer opened. Eamon took out a folded letter, its wax seal broken, and the book it had been tucked into.

The inscription on the book read, _"I believe you will find this as interesting as I did."_ At the very bottom of the back cover, a string of numbers had been written. He'd interpreted them to mean today, at noon. There was no indication of place, as far as he could find, so he'd stayed in his study. It was a silly and dramatic way to set up a meeting and to deliver a stolen document. Neither Auria nor Alistair were in residence, so why not come straight to him? Unless they had spies in the castle? No. Alistair wouldn't think of it, and no one trusted that elf mage enough to truly be on her side. He knew of her one "spy", and he was a man Eamon had placed himself. No, this person must be extra cautious or a fool. Time would tell.

Eamon flattened the letter open, noting the seal with a new flush of anger. The witch had created her own personal insignia. Strange knotwork entwined the ferocious dog of Ferelden and some type of Elvin tree. He could only assume the knotwork symbolized her magic and how it controlled all of them. This seal in itself was an affront to him and to Ferelden. He calmed himself, smoothing the letter to read again. There could be a secret message within the words, but the words themselves inflamed him so much he could never find it. Maybe his mysterious guest would have better luck.

...

_Alistair,_

_Yes, you must put up with my lack of endearments, but you know they are in my heart just as you are._

_I should really be telling you this in person, but whenever I look into your face my tongue rebels and only wants to say sweet things. Here, in this space, I must forge ahead into the territory we both avoid so adroitly. _

_I am not brave – you will scoff, but I am not. If I were, you would hear this from my lips. _

_There are subjects we've talked to death, beaten into submission until we both agree. There's no better way to say this – I don't agree with our agreements. _

_You might wonder which agreements I speak of. I truly hate to put it out here in black and white, instead of talking to you, but I told you I am a coward. I speak of our duty to Ferelden, Eamon and marriage. Yes, I know what you will say, but please keep reading. _

_One, I believe in Ferelden, but I don't believe our needs should be sacrificed like some offering up to Andraste. We can do good, and you can do your duty to the country without so many sacrifices. There must be a middle ground we can reach. _

_Two – You love Eamon, and I don't ask that you abandon him. I ask that you to put me, and your love for me, first. Let Eamon come second. We don't have to do something just because he says it. You're the King, not him. I don't ask you to believe in his hatred for me, just believe he'd like me out of your life for good. If I'm gone, it'll be much easier for him to encourage a marriage._

_Which brings me to three – I don't want you to marry. _

_Forget what Eamon says. The country doesn't need a queen, and we can sort out the heir problem somehow. We can be married in our hearts, if not by the Chantry. What we've found together is far too special to ruin, just because someone tells us to._

_Should we let what "they" say determine our future? What if we had listened to "them" during the blight? The country would've been overcome. We made our own decisions then and they were good ones. I know we can our own decisions again, and they will be even better._

_Please, please, please think about this. _

_And if I don't say this last part now, I will never say it. If you do marry, I cannot stay._

_I'm truly sorry and I don't want this to sound like an ultimatum, but I can't watch you marry someone else, Alistair. I thought I could, but I've been thinking of it since you were crowned, and have finally come to a decision. If you think about it, you know it's the right one._

_We said we could make it work, but we were dreaming. Neither one of us can separate emotions like that, and if we could, it would change the people we are. Every day would be like the day after Morrigan's bed. It would be that day for our whole lives, until it turned us into people that didn't care and weren't bothered by it. I don't want to change into that person, and I love you too much to let you change._

_Even if you think we could overcome that, it would still divide us. You two would be the King and Queen of Ferelden, and I would be… what? _

_You have been everything to me these last years and I have never wanted anything so much as I want to spend my life with you, but I can't share you with another woman. She would not only be your wife, but the mother of your children. Neither of us knew a family. I would love more than anything for us to be a family together, but if we can't, then I won't stand between the family you make with someone else. _

_I'm sorry, Alistair. I know it was a coward's way out to write this instead of talking to you, but I can never get the words out. I'm probably sitting nervously across from you right now, but know I don't expect you to decide anything tonight._

_I'll love you whatever your choice. Although I hope your choice will be me._

_Auria_

_Postscript: Eamon tells me you are hunting and won't be back for at least a week. I've delayed my departure for Vigil's Keep as long as I could. I hate leaving this letter for you, but I need you to know before Eamon starts calling the noblewomen in to meet you. _

_No matter what your decision, please come to me when you can, and know I love you and miss you. –Auria_

_...  
_

Eamon folded the letter back up and slid it into the book, placing them back into the secret compartment. Alistair would never trust him again if he found this letter in his possession, even if he was even innocent of the theft.

From the information he'd gathered, Auria had been Alistair's first and only woman. The mention of Morrigan concerned him. He'd sent Alistair to meet with the Empress of Orlais. No one, not even Alistair, would be able to resist her charms. He'd expected the infidelity to drive a wedge between Alistair and the mage. Now it seemed there had already been infidelity, and it had been forgiven. Surely Auria wouldn't forgive a second time. He had to make sure Alistair chose duty and Ferelden.

He sighed and stood again, pacing over to the window. The sun was already high overhead. His guest was late. Somewhere out there lay his own estate, but it was hidden now with the new city improvements. He didn't care to return to it. Too many memories haunted its walls. Let Teagan take the place over. Let him be haunted.

A light knock came from the door. Ah, his mysterious guest. Eamon opened the door himself, one hand on the hilt of his knife, just in case. He let go of the weapon at once, bowing.

"Revered Mother," he hesitated. She couldn't be the one he was expecting. A Revered Mother didn't steal letters and conceal them within books. Still, it wouldn't do to offend the Chantry. "Welcome," he said, opening the door wider. She didn't move. "Is there something I may do for you, your reverence?"

Her face had a puckered, sour look, lines creasing into deep wrinkles that she shouldn't have at her age. "Yes, you may recite the Chant of Light with me."

"Now?" Eamon questioned. Was the Chantry testing his piety? He had nothing to hide.

"Yes," she snapped. "Right now. Power is a corrupter, Ser Eamon Guerrin of Redcliffe." Eamon held his tongue, unwilling to be goaded. "In order to stave off that corruption, one must leave no place for it to take hold." She pointed her finger at him. "There is only one way to fill those dark crevasses every human holds within – through Andraste's grace and the Chant of Light. Let the Light fill you, and you will be saved. Reject the light, and you will be corrupted beyond all doubt." Her eyes bore into his with these last words. "There are some that are beyond Andraste's light, and walk forever in darkness. I think you will agree."

Eamon paused, wondering if he understood her correctly. His words were slow, ponderous. "I certainly do. There are some who are beyond redemption."

She nodded once. "Then we will recite the Chant to save you from corruption, and pray to Andraste that those of the darkness are plucked from our midst, like the weeds they are." She brushed past him and took the largest seat by the window. Her white hair gleamed in the afternoon sunlight. It was pulled back excruciatingly tight, not one strand escaping her severe bun. "Sometimes it is the will of Andraste that her servants become her hands," she waved her own hand. "Shut the door and stop standing there before I doubt your intelligence."

The Chantry was not a bedfellow he would've chosen. But, if they had the same goals… Eamon closed the door. Perhaps he didn't need to be quite so patient after all.


	12. Chapter 12

_Vigil's Keep, Amaranthine_

"You're awake already," Alistair's voice was sleepy and content, "and you're way over there."

Auria was awake. She'd been awake a long while, listening to his soft, rumbling snore. It was comforting, in its own way. Much more comforting than the room was. Had Howe actually enjoyed creating living spaces that towered ominously around you? Everything was ornate but oversized, dark wood furniture against dark wood walls, dark fabric patterns of black and charcoal with deep crimson swirling through it like blood on a midnight pond. The thick draperies matched the upholstered furniture, the crimson seeming to drip down, a reminder of all the lives she'd taken. She'd turned away from the sight, which was why she was now at the edge of the bed, her back to Alistair.

"Why so far?" he murmured, sounding as if he might fall back asleep. She felt the calloused tips of his fingers slip down her back, meaning he was too comfortable to move and wanted her to move instead. As she hesitated he gave another little scritch to her shoulder. The bed gave a slight creak as she rolled closer, settling into Alistair's warm chest, his skin delightfully bare against her back.

"Ah, better," he murmured, wrapping his arm around her. "Did I ever tell you about Anora's teacups? They were from Orlais, and I wasn't allowed to touch them. They fit one inside another like a puzzle. You're my perfect little inside cup."

Auria had heard the story before, but smiled anyway, "I thought I was your thimble teacup?"

"Ah, well, yes. That too. You're all of my teacups." He shivered, shaking his arm a little, "Hey, that tickles." Auria stopped her hand, realizing she'd unconsciously been tracing her fingers up and down the corded muscles of his arm. He shifted slightly behind her. "This mattress is lumpy."

"True." She wondered if Howe had spent his night's elsewhere, or if someone had taken his mattress for their own.

"But really, it's better than sleeping on the rocky ground, isn't it? No more things poking into our back?"

"Speak for yourself," Auria snickered and could almost hear the blood rushing to redden Alistair's face.

"That was an accident. You were cold and asleep, and I was trying to keep you warm."

"That's not what it felt like when I woke up," she teased.

"No? Well I didn't hear any complaining, then or later." He snugged her back against him and they lay there for a few moments, enjoying the silence and the warm contented pleasure such closeness brought.

Sometimes Auria wished they could stay like this forever. It was peaceful and comfortable, like their own little private bubble of a world. But as the minutes ticked by thoughts began to crowd into her mind. The more she tried to relax, the faster they came, like the unceasing waves that crashed over her in nightmares. Alistair's arm felt heavy, pressing down on her chest and crushing her into the bed. Her skin began to sweat. He was a furnace, his body trapping hers with radiating heat. She was going to burn up. She couldn't breathe. Before she could say anything Alistair rolled over, pulling her arm with him and tucking it around his waist.

Auria sighed with relief, pressing herself into his back and feeling the cool air on hers. He always knew just what she needed. She squeezed her eyes shut a moment, as a sudden hotness flooded them. Such a fool. Why should this simple act bring tears to her eyes? They'd cuddled like this a thousand times. Zevran had even teased them when he found them in the morning. _"Ah, I see who the big spoon is in this relationship. Bravo, my dear Warden."_ Alistair had blushed to the roots of his hair. Yet, that hadn't stopped him from letting her snuggle him, instead of the other way around. He understood she had trouble being confined, even if it was in the arms of her lover.

Through the gap in the curtains she could see the morning sun bright in the sky. It was probably closer to noon than sunrise. She pressed her cheek to the back of Alistair's shoulder. His skin was smooth and warm. "Alistair…" she began.

"Yeees?" he drawled.

"We need to—"

"Take a bath? I agree. Who's in charge of the water around here?"

"No," she laughed, despite herself. "I'm serious, we need to—"

"Find a dog and name him Munchie? Ah, no, we already did that, didn't we. You know he ruined two pair of my good boots? I think you encourage him to use me as a chew toy."

"You told me as soon as it happened. He likes leather, and you shouldn't use your feet to play with him." She wrapped herself closer to him, her hand sliding up his broad chest. "And, his name isn't Munchie."

"It is to me," he said, covering her hand with his. She could feel his heart beat under their joined fingers.

"You know that's not what I'm talking about."

"Can't I pretend?" He squeezed her hand, "We haven't even had breakfast yet. You can't expect me to talk about serious subjects with an empty stomach."

A sharp rap came from the wooden door.

"See, someone agrees with me!" Without moving, he called out, "Yes?"

"It's Doyle, your majesty," a voice called back. "I'm sorry to bother you, but—"

"No, no, it's fine," Alistair answered, looking around to where he might've left his clothing.

"See, it's fine!" another voice came faintly through the door, and there was a jiggle at the handle.

"Alistair!" Auria protested, quickly rolling away from him and grabbing her dirty linen shift from last night.

"Uh, no, wait! I mean, it's fine, but you can't come in," he gave her a sheepish look.

"I have your mage with me, sire," Doyle's muffled voice answered back. "He desires an audience, but I don't believe he's in any shape to meet with anyone at the moment."

"I don't want to talk to him, you dolt, I want to talk to _her_." Auria distinguished Anders' voice through the thick wooden door, and exchanged a look with Alistair. She shook her head slightly.

"Please see to it that the mage has a bath and is cleaned up," Alistair said. "And see about having water drawn up for us as well." Auria nudged him and gestured to the bedraggled state of her robes. Alistair laughed, pointing to well-placed burnt hole. "And bring the Commander some clothes, if you will."

"I'll see to it, your highness," Doyle said. If the requests surprised or shocked him none of it registered in his voice.

"Well, you're certainly getting bold outside of the castle," Auria said as she struggled to turn her robe around, back to front. "Asking for my clothes, and admitting to a shared bath? Aren't you afraid word will get back?"

"It's only Doyle," Alistair responded, leaving out Anders and the probable guards. "Are you saying you mind?"

I'm saying I love it, Auria thought to herself. Saying that I want you to be bold and uncaring of everyone's opinions forever. Saying that I want you to kiss me in the courtyard, in front of the whole city of Denerim and take me to your room in full view of the entire castle – the servants, nobility and even the Grand Cleric herself. And I want you to tell Eamon he can go fuck himself.

"No, I don't mind," was her only answer. Alistair started laughing. "What?" She looked down at herself and sighed. Obviously the back of her robes were burnt worse than the front. Just how had she managed to catch herself on fire? That was an apprentice mistake. She hadn't lit herself on fire since…

Her mind shied away from the memory. Not since being an apprentice herself. It had been Anders fault. Unwillingly, she remembered his laughter and the light in his eyes. They still sparkled with mischief, but now held secrets, like she could pull veil after veil away and there would still be more hidden underneath. His face was older too, with lines she didn't recognize. He must've experienced much in the years they'd been apart. Either that, or he was just a sodding drunk now. Lying in the middle of the floor in a pool of his own vomit. And those women! He was worse than Oghren.

"Auria. Hello? I find your stomach exceptionally captivating too, but I think you'd hit me if I stared at it that long."

Auria quickly lifted her head, dropping her hand from her bared waist. "I was just wondering how I could've been so foolish as to burn up my clothes."

"You don't remember?"

Auria thought about it. There had been a feast, with wonderful food and far too much wine. Varel had brought out a bottle of brandy, and they discussed darkspawn over the clear, amber liquid. Maybe it had been foolish to try spelling after imbibing so much alcohol. But talk of the darkspawn had drawn her thoughts to dead littered throughout the Keep, like so much forgotten trash. She imagined she could smell them, the bodies decomposing and the smell seeping through the cracks in the doors. She actually _could _smell the darkspawn, a thick coating of rancid oil in the back of her throat.

Doyle had gathered up a crew to search the premises, that she remembered. It had taken long, arduous hours to gather all the victims. There had been sticky blood and the cloying scent of death. Many of the men had gagged as they stumbled over darkspawn, the dead flesh already soft and rotten, squelching with putrid liquid when stepped on. They'd burned the creatures on the spot. She remembered their sickening stench filling her nostrils as she contained the bursts of fire, the scent singeing her lungs worse than any true fire ever could.

A crowd had gathered by the time they returned to the pyre. She remembered not wanting to use up all the Vigil's wood and deciding to implement the fire herself. It had leaped with a life of its own, turning into a roaring vortex of flame that cracked bones and turned everything to dust. The smoke from the burning bodies rose into the sky and spread over everything, but the caustic, pungent smell of burning flesh did nothing to disperse the crowd. She'd maintained control of the fire, but it had been impossible to weave any soothing spells, not with her depleted reserves. After that things were blurry.

There had been some sort of riot. People screaming. She remembered trudging out into the darkness of the surrounding ground. And then nothing.

That is, nothing until she woke in the early morning hours before first light, with Alistair pressed to her back. She remembered _that_ quite clearly. Yes, that part of the night had been very pleasant. Very deliciously, unexpectedly pleasant. She hadn't even minded the smoky smell that still clung to their bodies.

Alistair was waiting for her answer, an eyebrow cocked at the small smile that curved her mouth.

"Some things I remember better than most," she said, returning his raised eyebrow. His smile slowly widened as she glanced toward the bed.

"Ah, well, at least I'm memorable."

"You're far more than memorable." His smile broadened further at the silky tone of her voice.

"That's good to know." He pulled her with him into one of the large, oversized chairs left from Howe's reign. She sat stiffly for a moment – this was it, she should bring up her letter and Eamon. She might not get a better chance. Then Alistair tucked her head into his shoulder, running his fingers soothingly down her back, and she let herself lean into him. He still smelled smoky, but pleasantly, like wood smoke from a cozy fire. Good thing she couldn't smell herself, she doubted she smelled as sweet.

"What else do you remember?" he asked, his voice so neutral she had to look up at him.

"Not much after the pyre," she admitted.

"We were attacked," Alistair stated flatly. He didn't look happy. "They were peasants, or maybe beggars, fighting with rusted knives and pitchforks. We didn't know until they were dead. They threw their lives away uselessly, and I don't even know why."

"How? Where?"

"The field. You were a little…" he paused as if searching for the right word, "…zealous." His mouth quirked down, and she could tell he was unsatisfied with his word choice. "You demanded we search the fields again, and started off before we could gather the men back up. Only Mhairi saw where you went, Oghren and I had to run to catch up with her before you both disappeared into the darkness." He tucked a strand of hair back behind her long pointed ear. "And you were right, there _were_ darkspawn, though the Maker only knows how we missed them before. It was dark, but I could swear the patch of ground had already been burnt."

"I smelled them," Auria said quietly, remembering.

"Well, you found them alright. But your hands were shaking and Mhairi was holding you up when we reached you." Alistair settled her more firmly onto his lap and took her hand. "I took you from Mhairi, but you refused to draw power from me when I suggested it, and struggled to stand up on your own. You weren't using blood magic."

"No," Auria agreed, she remembered that too.

He looked at her several moments before he continued. "Somewhere you found enough power to set fire to the bodies. The smoke blew up and that's when they attacked. Five of them, slaughtered in minutes." Alistair shook his head. Auria knew how much he hated killing commoners. It had stopped bothering her a long time ago, or so she told herself. "Somehow they smeared you with… I don't know what it was. Some type of dark, viscous liquid. Oil, maybe. One of them must've pushed you into your own fire, because suddenly every black globule was aflame." He kissed the side of her face, his lips soft and his voice warm. "I guess they didn't realize you have a high tolerance for fire."

"Too bad I can't say the same for my robes." That got a small smile from him. She could see in his eyes he took their deaths personally. "Most likely they were overly pious men who decided I was a blasphemer, and my punishment should be death. They probably didn't even realize they were attacking their King. It's happened before." Alistair nodded in slow agreement, but Auria could tell he wanted to say something more. "What is it?"

"It was impressive how long you lasted, having already fought a battle earlier."

"But?"

"Why weren't you using blood magic?"

"I've not used it before." An uneasy silence grew up around them.

"Maybe. But you're used to the heightened power your magic gives you now. Trying to duplicate it with lyrium…" he let the sentence trail off.

"What are you saying?" Auria's voice was quiet.

"Uh, well, nothing really. Just that… even without using your battle talents you needed to down an awful lot of lyrium in a very short amount of time. And well… Do you think it's safe? You've seen what happens to templars."

"You think blood magic is safer?" She looked at him incredulously. "The Alistair I met in Ostagar sure would disagree."

"He was young and hadn't seen much of the world. I like to think he uses his brain a bit more now."

"You always used your brain." She smoothed her hand over his scruffy cheek.

"Well, I like to think that now I use it to come up with my own ideas and theories, and not just to remember facts and figures other people have taught me were true."

"You do, you make a very fine King."

"And you, my very fine Commander," he smiled, "haven't actually answered the question."

"So, you really think it's safer. Blood." Alistair didn't answer. "You know lyrium doesn't affect mages the same. And I'm not addicted to it, if that's what you're implying."

"No, no, that's what I meant. Ugh, this isn't coming out right. I'm concerned, that's all. You're going to be out here all by yourself, and it's not—_not_ –that you can't take care of yourself, because you can. You are the most capable person I know. It's… well." He turned her to face him on his lap.

"If you're not using blood magic because… well, you know why. It's going to be hard, you might be tempted to lean on lyrium a little too much." He held up a hand to stop any argument. "I know, it doesn't affect you the same, but no one has really studied high doses like this out in the field. We really don't know what might happen." He cupped her jaw, his thumb caressing the side of her cheek. "I won't be here, and it kills me. Who will you confide in? Oghren's not the confidante type, and I know for sure you're not going to be spilling secrets to Ser-Magey-Ponytail. There's Mhairi, but I can already see you've decided on a Master-student type relationship with her."

"She has stars in her eyes," Auria said, and then was silent. She had been wondering how long she could keep her blood magic a secret from her soon-to-be Wardens. Not that she was ashamed, just that it brought up so many questions. It had been simple to keep it from the regular soliders she took out on skirmishs back in Denerim. But other mages and her own Wardens—

"I can handle it."

"I know you can. But I've never seen you quite like yesterday. You turned that fire into a wild vortex and held it like… like it was your own personal fire tornado, and then you just quashed it. Like that!" he snapped his fingers together. "And when you passed out you were dead to the world. I admit it, I was afraid. I carried you from the field all the way to the room, and your eyes didn't even flutter."

She was about to protest, when he smoothed her hair back behind her ear. The touch of his fingers made the whole side of her cheek tingle.

"I'm worried for you, love."

Her heart gave a strange little skipping beat at his words. "I'm fine, see?" She kissed him. His lips were so soft and warm.

"Just promise you're not going to deny who you are or try to change yourself, just because of that drunken mage." His brows pinched together. "Unless… are you still—"

"No," Auria cut in firmly. "I'm not. We buried him."

Now it was Alistair's turn to kiss her, and she felt herself melting at his touch, both of them leaning back into the plush chair. She broke the kiss slowly.

"A blood mage is not who I am. Not using it doesn't change me."

Alistair sighed, resting his hands on her waist. "You are many things, many wonderful, amazing, beautiful things. None of them are who you are, but who you are incorporates all those things. So in that way, while you are _you_, part of that you _is_ a blood mage. You have to forgive yourself for what you do. I forgave it, a long time ago. But until you accept who you are, what I think won't matter. You'd be so much happier." His tone was pleading and his fingers caressed her, as if by his very touch he could convince her the truth of his words. "I remember you telling some redheaded bard something similar once."

Auria gave a smile and leaned her forehead against his cheek. She didn't need forgiveness. She did what she had to do, whether it was ugly or not. But last night –

"It's not so easy."

"I know – and change is good. You taught me that. But it has to be change that comes from within, something for you. You taught me that too – see all your good influence? I bet you never thought it would come back to bite you."

"Oh? We're biting now?"

Alistair raised his eyebrows in a leering expression, "Maybe, if you're good." He cleared his throat, "or should that be bad? It seems like it should be bad, because… biting, but then…"

"Alistair."

He laughed, and took her hands in his, as if that little break didn't just happen. "I'm afraid you might try to change for… other people. And that would be bad. See, bad? It's going to be hard here, and I don't want it become harder. So please, for me, think about it? Be a little bit careful?"

"So, you learned all that from me, did you?" She pressed her lips to his. "It's a promise."

"Oh, this sort of promise needs a much better seal than that."

Threading his fingers through her dark, tangled locks, he turned her face up to his. His gaze flickered between her mouth and her eyes. "They turn such a beautiful shade of bluish green when I'm kissing you," his nose rubbed against hers, "and I can see little flakes of gold dusted through all those interwoven fracturey prisms. And then you have this deep, dark rim that encircles them, containing all that beauty so it's just for me, and doesn't escape out into the world."

"You're mad," she laughed, "Insane. Bonkers."

"Oh?" His mouth covered hers and she felt the laughter fall away as she melted into him, becoming fluid and jelly and needing, all at once. He kissed her hungrily, until they both were squirming, pressing, trying to get as close as possible without breaking the kiss. With effort, Auria broke herself away. Things had to be said, and who knew when Doyle would arrive with clothes, food and water. Her stomach churned and her hands felt clammy. But she had to do this. She had to know.

Auria put a firm hand on his chest, separating them. "I asked you before, but now I have to hear your answer. Did you decide… Did you come to a decision?"

Alistair looked perplexed. "About what?"

"About…" she found she couldn't say the words out loud. It sounded so petty in her mind, like she was one of those court girls she hated, giving ultimatums to extract better gifts. _Give up on marriage and stay with me. If you don't, I'll leave. Now give me expensive things to make me forget. _That was how it would sound, she knew it. Her mouth turned down sourly. How could he make her say this after all she had written him? "About my letter," she said finally.

"What letter?" Alistair asked, his forehead still creased in puzzlement.

"The letter I left for you, before coming here." Still with the blank looks. "I left it in our box, the one in that hidden compartment." She would've smiled at the memory of all those little secret exchanges of love letters and trinkets, if she were not riding the edge of nervousness and frustration. Her body jittered as if she'd tried mixing elfwood in with her lyrium.

"You left me a letter?" A broad grin began to spread over Alistair's face like sun breaking from the clouds. "I didn't know, I didn't see it." He grasped her up in his arms, lifting them both up out of the chair. "I thought you'd left me, I thought you were mad, or didn't want to see me!" He spun her around, like a boy who'd just found out there really was a magical creature that gave out toys and candy, and he'd received all the toys and candy today. His arms enveloped her as he set her back onto her feet.

"I came here deciding I wouldn't let you leave like that, I wanted to see you even if you didn't care to say goodbye, or maybe didn't want to see me at all. That I would forgive… But I didn't know…"

He cupped her face in both hands and kissed her. "I didn't know you'd written me goodbye. You make me so happy." He pressed little kisses across her mouth, and then hugged her up in his arms again. "Oh! Oh, and I am so sorry I ever thought you would leave, and for what I said when I got here. You don't need any forgiving, I do. I should've checked the box more thoroughly. Imagine if we hadn't found out!" he laughed and picked her up again, swinging her once more around the room. The furniture glared down suspiciously, looming.

"But we did! I am so happy you told me before I left." He cupped her face again and kissed her, this time tenderly. Auria was speechless, her mind spinning. He never got the letter. If he didn't… where was it? And he was so happy. His happiness broke her heart. How could she tell him now? But how could she not tell him? She looked at his bright grinning face. She couldn't. She couldn't tell him. He was kissing her again, and this time she leaned into him, letting the hotness of his mouth distract her from further thought. The energy built between them, like the heat and crackle of an electric storm just beginning. Auria had to contain her magic, feeling it want to spark.

Alistair's fingers curled at the small of her back, grazing bare skin where her robes had burned. She gave a soft, almost inaudible moan, her breath coming quick and shallow. His tongue parted her lips and she heard a growl coming from somewhere deep in the back of her throat. Alistair responded, one arm encircling her waist, the other holding the back of her head in his palm, cradling but commanding. He brought their mouths together in a kiss that landed them on the floor, gasping, limbs entwined. Auria's robe ripped off easily, already tattered and full of holes. There was the tinkling of tiny buttons falling on the floor.

"You ruined my shirt again."

"So, fix it."

"I'll fix you." Alistair pressed the length of his body down on top of hers. She arched up to meet him, needing the touch. The stone floor was hard and cold, but Auria didn't care. Her hands slid over the planes of his chest, remembering the first time she'd seen him bare-chested, coming up out of the water after bathing, the summer sun bright on his skin and hair. He'd been smiling, not realizing she was there. He probably would've run away blushing had he known. Now he was all hers, to strip, to kiss, to… her mouth moved hotly from one side of his chest to the other, leaving a line of little wet kisses down his stomach. She nuzzled at his navel, brushing her lips against the little line of hair that trailed down into his groin.

Alistair gripped her shoulders and lifted her bodily up, tossing her on the bed. She bounced several times before she came to a still. He was watching her like she was the cream and he the cat. Slowly he climbed up her body, his bare skin lightly dragging over hers. She felt on fire, like at any moment she would explode, and he had hardly touched her yet. Writhing, she tried to bring more of their skin into contact. Finally, Alistair's body still hovering over hers, he leaned his head down and kissed her. Really kissed her. Kissed her like there was no one else in the world, like only they two existed. The sheer intensity of the emotion shocked her, driving every thought from her mind. He cradled her body to his, and her legs wrapped around him automatically. Their moans grew louder, intermingling with the rhythmic knocking of the bedframe against the wall. Neither of them cared, or even thought to notice.

Doyle stood outside the door, hand frozen half-way to the door. He heard Alistair cry out, and then Auria, her high feathered cries making him blush. He glanced furtively down the hall, glad he had sent the guards down to the next floor. It wouldn't do to let them see him blush. Or for them to think he was eavesdropping. Quickly he walked away to let them bask in the aftermath. He would come back soon. Today was to be a busy day.

.~.~.~.~.

Anders couldn't actually complain about being refused into the King's chamber. Not when he was reclining in a warm bath, with some delightfully scented soap. A leftover from the dead Orlesian Wardens? He didn't actually care at this point. None of them had been particularly nice to him.

His stomach rumbled. Ah, well, he couldn't soak away his troubles forever. Maybe they would have breakfast. He looked sadly at the well-used pants and shirt the serving girl had left him. Serviceable, he supposed. The robe he had been wearing was filthy and stained, he could only hope it would come clean. He hadn't let the girl take it, afraid he would never see it again. One clean embroidered edge gleamed at him, and he sighed, stepping into the plain brown trousers. He sighed again. Sacks for shoes.

He felt like a poor relation come from the country as he walked into kitchen. The pants were too short, the sleeves too tight. He made a mental note to pilfer the rest of the Orlesian's belongings just as soon as he had breakfast.

"What are you doing in here?" The cook demanded. She was a tall, broad woman who looked like she would be more at home in a smith's forge than in a kitchen. He marveled at the muscles in her arms. Though as she lifted a huge black pot away from the stoked fire, he could see how a smith and a cook might have various similarities.

"Umm… breakfast?" Anders said hopefully.

"You don't eat in the kitchen." She scowled at him. Most likely she remembered him from last night, although he didn't remember her. He did faintly remember trying to pilfer smoked meats from the pantry with Oghren.

"I'm sorry," he answered, giving her a bright smile as if she were the prettiest flower in the garden. "Where should I be eating?"

She harrumphed, inspecting his clothes. "Breakfast is done for, you'll have to wait for the mid-day meal." She set an apple down in front of him. "You might be able to scrape some leftovers from the morning's porridge," she nodded towards another large pot that looked like it had been off the fire for some time. "And there's honey. And bread and butter," she added grudgingly at his pleading look.

"Thank you," Anders said with real gratefulness. There was more than a bit of scrapings left in the pot, and he hadn't had honey or butter in far too long. The porridge turned out to be delicious, though cold, and he sighed happily.

"You must know everything there is to know around here," he said, in between mouthfuls, "The kitchen is the heart of every dwelling."

"I'm no gossip," she snapped, "but that is true." She began kneading a large ball of dough. "The people are reeling from yesterday's attack. Still trying to sort out survived and who didn't. It's hard to make sense of the tragedy. But I don't imagine you care what the common folk are up to."

He opened his mouth to protest, but closed it again at the wet shine in her eyes. She had probably lost friends and family, he could convince her of his lack of bias later.

"The king and his lady, our Arlessa, are still up in their chamber," she said this with some amount of pride, as though Auria had been her Arlessa for years and just won the eye of a King. "I don't hold with not giving a dead man his rites, but if our Arlessa says it's necessary, then it's necessary and no two ways about it."

Anders nodded.

"The army is all camped out in the western field. Have their own food, and I'm glad of that." She nearly smiled as he cleaned his bowl, scraping out every last bit with obvious relish. "And, I'll tell you this, two of those templars road away this morning, so you only have one to worry about."

"Oh? Which one?"

"That sour-tempered whey-faced woman. She complained of my biscuits. My biscuits! She even got one of the first batches. People come for miles to be here for my breakfasts." She thumped the dough over. "She can't leave here soon enough, if you ask me."

"You know I'm a mage," Anders heard himself saying. Why? Why did he always have to tell people that?

The cook eyed him. "Being a mage doesn't make you a bad person, just like being a templar doesn't make you a good one. And," she added gruffly, "You're a healer." She tossed him another apple. It was dusted white with the flour from her hands, but took it gladly. "For later."

Anders thanked her and started towards the back stairs. He stopped, turning. "You don't happen to know anything about the joining, do you?"

She looked at him blankly.

"The ritual—Did the Orlesian wardens ever initiate new members into their ranks?"

She divided her dough neatly into sections, shaping each into a loaf sized ball, perfecting each one before she answered. "They did. I don't know much, no one saw it, no one talked about it. They were very secretive, them Wardens. And always hungry. But I suppose I knew them better than most." Turning her back on him, she prepared each ball of dough to rise. "More than one of them was in here after one of their initiations, shoving food down their throats like another man would booze. I got the idea not all of them made it, from their talk. I don't know what happened, but one or two faces always went missing. Won't find many people that'll talk about that, so don't you go saying who told you."

Anders nodded, "I won't. Thank you. One more thing… The Orlesian's Quarters?"

…

He mulled over what she'd said as he climbed the stairs. This joining was sounding less and less appealing. Just what was he getting himself into here? Vials of darkspawn blood and sudden disappearances? He had more questions now that he had before.

The stairs opened up onto a new level. The ceilings were dark, thick beams spanning their width. That was nothing unusual, he'd found the Keep to be dark and sturdy, like most of Ferelden architecture. But the rooms here were clean. Not straightened up – there were cards spread out on a table, books lying open – but _clean_. Not one speck of blood, not one sooty scorch mark, not one overturned chair.

He picked up one of the books. Orlesian. A book of poetry. He set it down again, leaving it open to the same page. They must've left so quickly to join the battle that no darkspawn made it to this floor. He wondered how many people they saved by giving up their own lives, their deaths distracting the grisly creatures long enough for women and children to flee for safety.

Could a blood ritual be worth that? Was it possible to use just a little bit of blood magic and not lose oneself? Or was that like a sailor on leave saying he'd just have a single pint of ale? He thought of the sickening moment when the blood mage had slithered into his mind, controlling him with such insidious ease and nearly turning him into a murderer.

There were only three choices as he saw it. The Tower, escape, or becoming a warden. He knew what he would've chosen had this had been a year ago, or even a month or a day ago. Now he wasn't sure.

And there was the matter of the conversation he'd overheard earlier.

All this speculating was getting him nowhere. These clothes weren't helping. How could anyone think while wearing pants that didn't even cover one's ankles? And he'd be damned if he was going to confront Auria and her ponce of a king wearing cloth sacks as shoes. He remembered that look Alistair had given him over Auria's head.

Oh. Anders shook his head ruefully, the memories from last night coming into sudden clarity. Now it all made sense. The clothes, the way the serving girl had looked at him as she readied the bath, as if waiting for him to say something more than thank-you. Or _do_ something more. Well, he'd just have to make amends later. From what he remembered she'd be very worth it. Right now he needed to find more suitable clothing. The Orlesian's private rooms had to be further down the hall.

…

"What are you doing?"

The low, somber voice came from behind him and Anders turned, one arm into a brightly colored sleeve. A tall grey-haired man filled the doorway.

"Ah… this isn't what it looks like."

"It looks like you're pilfering dead men's belongings," Varel said.

"Well, I guess it's sort of what it looks like." Anders slipped his second arm into the shirt and began buttoning it up. Finally, a shirt that fit properly. "But I need it and they don't. I'm sure a warden would be happy to share with a fellow warden down on his luck."

Varel nodded towards the bed. A mishmash of clothes, toiletries and various sundries was strewn across its surface. "And all that?"

He shrugged his shoulders. "Party favors?"

"Our people were slaughtered yesterday. This is no party."

"From what I hear, you might lose more people today," Anders hazarded a guess, "Or am I wrong about the joining?"

The grey-haired man regarded him a few moments. He wasn't wearing armor today, but he might as well been, the way his shoulders were set. "Take what you need, but only what you need – no personal items. I will be gathering those up to send back to their families."

Anders watched his straight, stiff back as he turned to leave. "Wait—Does that mean I'm right?"

"You'll have to ask the Commander that," Varel replied, his tone grave. As he continued down the hall, clearly on a mission of his own, Anders thought he heard him whisper a few more words—a prayer to Andraste.

So the disappearances weren't disappearances at all, they were deaths. Well.

He was tempted to follow Varel, but he still had boots to try on. If he did survive to see tomorrow, he wanted to be properly clothed for it.


	13. Chapter 13

_Vigil's Keep, Amaranthine_

The morning had been so promising with its blue skies and bright rays of sunlight. Now those skies were grey and the air hung heavy with moisture. Auria kept an eye on the horizon as she finished her inspection of yesterday's destruction. There would be a storm by evening, perhaps midnight if they were lucky. The weather hung on the cusp of spring, that wonderful in-between season of iced-over mud and muck two feet deep. Ferelden storms were always unpredictable, but it was worse at this time of year. Whereas last night's storm brought rain and soaked the ground, she had a feeling the next one would cover that same ground with ice, freezing all the moisture in place. Give her true snowstorms, or better, the gentle rains of real spring. Sleeting rain and frigid moist air got in her bones and brought back nostalgia for the cozy work rooms of the Circle. There was nothing about the Circle she wanted to remember with fondness, not even its warmth. The Keep was unlikely to have such warmth, not even with its many hearths.

Vigil's Keep was different than she'd imagined – not only because she'd arrived in the midst of a darkspawn attack, but also because of its size and scope. While the Circle Tower jutted straight into the air, as if in denial of the rock it was part of, the Vigil seemed like a natural growth of the landscape, like some great carved mountain uncovered from the earth instead of built upon it. And it was huge. She'd gotten lost trying to find her way down to the courtyard. Not that she'd admit it to anyone. A Commander should appear to be in control at all times. Plus, she had last night to live down. Being carried up the stairs. How could she have let herself get into that state? She pushed the thought away – she knew exactly how, and this wasn't the time to think about it. The survivors were whispering rumors about her and Alistair – maybe she should encourage them. Better the people think her amorous than unable to walk herself up the stairs.

"Commander—" a girl of no more than twelve stood several steps away, attempting a strange bobbing curtsy. The dirty ragged dress didn't help her any. "Uhm, I mean Arlessa. Commander Arlessa. Warden Commander Arlessa—"

"Commander is fine," she interrupted the girl. The child's face had a hollowed out look that had nothing to do with one day of battle, no matter how heinous. "And what should I call you?"

The girl stared at her blankly, large blue eyes wide.

"Your name," Auria prodded gently.

"V… Verimensis, your grace. Commander," she stuttered out. Her jaw clamped shut and then opened again, as if deciding to be brave, "but no one calls me that. Most folk call me Pigeon, or Veri." Staring at the ground she added, "I like Veri better."

"Thank you, Veri. Did you have a message?"

"Uhm, yes Commander," the girl said to her bare toes, "Sen'shal told me to find you. They're ready for you— not the Sen'shal, he's in the upper quarters, he just told me to get you for the King, umm, his majesty..." she cleared her throat. "I'm supposed to say that your presence is requested by the King. His highness... majesty… is waiting in Arl Howe's study—uhh... no, not the Arl's—the—" she stopped, breathlessly, as if not sure what to call the room now that Howe had been killed and proven traitor.

"Where can I find the study?" Auria asked, looking the girl over. Her hair was so dirty it was hard to tell the color and she was tall, nearly as tall as she was herself. That wasn't a feat for most humans, but usually she could at least count on being taller than the children. Not that height had anything to do with leadership or skill. The last man to believe her height gave him an advantage was lying namelessly out in a ditch somewhere between Denerim and Vigil's Keep. The thought gave her an unbidden satisfaction and even as she tried to deny it, a feral smile spread across her face.

"Ummm… it's… he's…" the girl backed up a few paces, "he's in the study on the second floor. The King is, I mean, not the Arl. It couldn't be the Arl, he being dead and all. And you being the Arlessa and not being marr—oh. I didn't mean.. I just…" she wrung her hands nervously. "The study is on the second floor, fourth door from the stairs, if you take the stairway from the Great Hall."

"Thank-you. Take a message to Cook, and let her know the new Wardens will need meat again tonight at supper and double the normal amount of wine. Also, let her know a large storm is due in tonight, and I expect it to rain for…" Auria paused, channeling a bit of her will into the atmosphere, her sense of water finding its kindred in the approaching storm. "About three days, hard. Possibly an ice storm."

Veri's eyes opened wider, although Auria wasn't sure how that was possible. "A weather witch," she breathed. "My own mam knew one once, she got mad one day and called a storm to blow all the roofs off the houses!"

"I can promise I won't be blowing the roofs off any houses in my Arling, so you and your mam can rest easy."

"Oh, I'm not afraid," the girl said, losing a bit of her anxiety in excitement. "We'll have good crops for sure now. Could you make it storm whenever you wanted? Fallon said icicles shot from your fingers and you brought lightning down from the sky, but I didn't believe him, he's such a big liar. He's always saying—"

"Veri. Will you please deliver my message now?" Auria's eyes caught on the pointed edges to the girl's shoulders, as if they'd been sawed off at a right angle. "Tell the cook I said to give you something nice for your troubles."

"Oh, yes'm, thank you, ma'am, I'll be right quick! Commander, Ser, your ladyship!" The girl bobbed her head again and ran off, bare feet flying up the steps toward the front hall.

A weather witch. She wasn't one, not really. Not in the sense most country folk meant. She couldn't change weather patterns or cause gentle rains to fall on farmland, nor could she bring out the sun when they needed a warm day. Immediate howling storms, yes – lightning that forked out of nowhere, yes – but they were self-contained, like she'd displaced a small bubble of atmosphere and made it her own. They did nothing to help or hinder the weather outside of them. Given, the frost and snow would lie on the ground until it melted, but that wasn't much use in the larger scheme of things. Not when farmers were trying to recover from a blight and food was scarce all around.

Whoever this Fallon was, he'd been right. She had left icicles dripping like pointed teeth along the upper parapets. Creating fountains of flames or ice or electricity took no great effort. Those were the first spells she'd mastered, the ones that had, in fact, allowed her to be promoted into the advanced classes at the Circle. She'd always had an affinity for primal spells. Upon leaving Kinloch Hold she'd also discovered a talent for reading storms and tides, for knowing just where a river traveled as it wound its way through the countryside. Water. It was at the heart of her magic. Ironic that she should be so deathly afraid of drowning – even now the thought made her uncomfortable.

Every mage had a spell that came to them first, a spell that announced both to themselves and the world at large that yes, they could wield magic. For Anders that had been healing. For her, it had been water. Not ice, which was the more like the discipline of fire. Pull the heat out and an object freezes. Water was fluid and akin to earth magic in the way it was manipulated. Not many realized that – Circle mages didn't learn water spells, at least, not the ones in Ferelden. No, the mages in Ferelden were half-drowned and encouraged to see water as death.

Auria didn't like to think about her first spell. She wished it had been healing, anything innocent and innocuous. Maybe that first spell had marked her. Maybe that was why blood magic called out to her, why she could command it with such ease and deftness – perhaps even why the sword called out to her. A wielder of death, that was what she was. What she had been from the age of five. Death bringer. No wonder her parents hadn't tried to hide her. Not one person in the alienage stood up for her when the templars came. No, instead they'd pushed her out into the street and closed their doors. Not that she cared. Her parents had not been kind people, and even a five year old knows when they are unwanted.

The adults at the Circle had been nice to her, templars and mages both. They let her sleep in a bed and clothed her in thick robes and socks. No one ever mentioned her first spell or talked about what happened. She'd kept silent, unsure if they knew. Maybe guards didn't talk to templars. Certainly no one at the Circle would give hot food and warm clothes to an elf, not if they knew the truth.

Auria wasn't sure what the truth was anymore. Maybe it had been a trick of a child's imagination. She'd certainly never been able to manipulate water the way she remembered. To be fair, she'd never really tried. Yet, something had happened that night. The guards came, and the men were dragged away from her. They'd hung so limply, and she'd seen their eyes… Why was she thinking of this? What was done was done, and it was no use dwelling on the past. Only the present and the future mattered, and in them she wasn't a sad, scared girl, she was a commander – The Commander. People put their trust in her to save and protect them, they put the trust of their future in her hands. She would do whatever was needed to secure that future: victory, vigilance, sacrifice. The joining cup seemed to loom in her thoughts. It wasn't her fault if sometimes that sacrifice belonged to others. It wasn't, she repeated to herself, opening the door to the main hall.

Auria stopped short. Anders was at the other end room, surrounded by a few servants. A few women servants, of course. He looked… good. The Orlesian style of clothes suited him, as did his hair. He'd smoothed it back into a clean ponytail, blonde highlights sparkling in the lamplight above him. As he gestured with his hands the girls tittered with laughter, one of them reaching out to grasp his arm as if his words were so funny she couldn't stand on her own. Auria rolled her eyes. He hadn't changed, not at all. What had she expected? That the aim of this morning's attempted visit had been to make some silly declaration? To tell her he'd never forgotten? No, if she had meant anything to him he would've found her years before. Turning the corner quickly, she started up the steps before he could see her.

**...**

Anders' heart gave an unwieldy thump as he saw Auria leave the hall. The robe she wore should've been plain, but the way she'd belted it – leather straps criss-crossing at her waist to hold the skirt just high enough to give her stride freedom, a dagger at each hip – it was mesmerizing. She obviously didn't feel the same about him – the look she'd flashed his way was contemptuous, as if he were no better than the mud on her boots. Well. She would have to deal with him, whether she wanted to or not. He would have an answer, or he would let Rylock cart him away. _But… hero_, part of his mind whispered. _Grey Warden, saving the world_. _Freedom_. No, he commanded himself. The blight was over and he'd get down on his knees and pray to Andraste before he willingly made himself vulnerable to blood magic. And that was saying something.

"Excuse me, girls," he smiled, squeezing each of their hands in turn, "I can't wait to continue this conversation, but, duty calls. Tell you what… the first one to find me after dinner will get a very special magic trick," he winked, and pulled into existence three exquisite ice roses. The spell had taken him a long time to perfect, but it had been worth it. Oh, had it been worth it. Maybe Auria… no, she had her king.

"Ooo, it's cold!" one girl exclaimed, the one with the long plaited hair. She tucked her frozen fingers into her mouth, looking up at him through her lashes.

"All the better to warm you up, later," he said, giving her a last lingering glance as he swept away to the stairs. Damn, but he wished he had his robes. They really gave the final touch to his performance. Ah well, the Orlesian clothes weren't too bad, although they wore their pants a little snugger than he was comfortable with. A little too confining. Perhaps it would distract Auria. She must've come this way. Maybe he could even catch her alone—

Maker take it! Did that man have to be everywhere? Anders ducked into an alcove, hoping Doyle hadn't noticed him. He'd been surprisingly strong for such a thin man – no, not thin, sleight. Being on the receiving end of that strength had not been his idea of fun. The dark-haired man had gripped his arm and bodily dragged him down the stairs, completely uncaring of his weakened state. His arm still felt bruised, even though he'd healed it. Those muscles were well-hidden on the man's small frame. Doyle had also worn at least three daggers and what felt disconcertingly like a vial of poison. It left an unpleasant stickiness on Anders' fingers, like touching the slime from a snail – very different than the warm blush of elfroot or the tingling of lyrium.

If Doyle was an ordinary King's man he'd give up drink for a fortnight. For one, he had a completely average face. The very unremarkableness of it made it remarkable. Except Anders amended, when he scowled. Then those plain blue eyes became as steely and sharp as any blade. He'd bet a gold coin that men twice his size backed down at his scowl. It had just that right tinge of madness mixed with confidence, almost like some type of glamour. He should know, he'd witnessed the effect first hand when the blighter caught him in the stairwell.

For two, Anders just didn't like him. Why did he need a reason? He was perfectly within his rights to be biased. The man had taken advantage of his hung-over state, easily overpowering him and then shoving him off on some servant girl. Well, the servant girl part wasn't too bad, not once he'd found her and apologized. She'd promised never to bring him clothes from the rag pile again. Then she'd promised him a little more… Hopefully, he'd be alive to enjoy it.

Anders peered around the corner, Doyle was gone. Silently casting a little 'don't notice me' spell over himself he slipped down the hall. The spell wouldn't hold up under close scrutiny, but it was good enough when someone didn't expect him to be there. People were amazingly good at only seeing what they wanted. A door stood ajar, faint voices coming from within.

Three, he thought, grimacing at the scene in front of him – he didn't like the familiar way the wiry man sat with Auria. Who did he think he was, bending his head close to hers like that? And why was he scruffy all the time? Shouldn't a king's man either keep his face shaven or grow a beard? Scruff was best left for the artistically scruffy. Not for overly familiar little tossers who thought they were in charge of everyone else. And what was that, with the hand touching? He should go in there right now and demand Auria speak with him, break up their little tête-à-tête.

Instead, Anders leaned into the shadows of the hall, straining his ears to hear their conversation.

**...**

The room was empty when she arrived. It was quiet and somehow peaceful – almost cheerful. Veri must've been wrong, this couldn't have been Howe's study. The décor was soothing, the desk much too petite and she didn't see one ostentatiously ornate carving. There were blood stains on the carpet, and a good chunk of a bookcase was strewn across the floor as if a great hammer had taken a swing at it, but that was to be expected. It even had a small hearth of its own, which someone had lit. Perhaps she could learn something from Varel. The Keep ran with surprising smoothness, given only yesterday battle had raged in its halls.

A quick rap on the open door made her turn. Not Alistair. Doyle. His face was strained, and her spine stiffened in automatic response.

"How bad?" she asked, a tone of sharp command.

"Not unsalvageable," his mouth twisted wryly.

Auria's eyes flicked back to the door, "Alistair?"

"Distracted, but I doubt for long."

"Leave the door open, it wouldn't do for us to be found alone in a closed room." She sat at the desk, motioning for him to take a stool across from her. They faced the ever increasing gloom of the afternoon, dark grey clouds slowly replacing blue sky.

"I'm glad to see you with Alistair," she said, giving him one of her rare smiles. Doyle was a good man. He'd been a conscript during the war, but one who fell to it with determination, quickly moving up the ranks. He'd been at the battle of Denerim and she'd seen him take down more than his fair share of darkspawn, blades moving faster than her eye could follow. Most the men he'd led had survived and he'd received a commendation from Teagan. When he volunteered to serve her after Alistair's coronation she'd immediately accepted, placing him where she most needed a trusted ally – at Alistair's side. "Report?"

"The King almost left without me. Eamon sent me into the city on some fool's errand, but an army of that size doesn't travel as fast as one man on horse. The Captain of the Guard didn't look happy to see me. He's a tool of Eamon's."

"Not good, but not unexpected."

"I found notes in the Captain's pouch, these are the copies," Doyle slipped a rolled up sheath of papers into her hand, "I don't believe he's had time to send any of his observations on to Denerim, but we've already received two missives today – one from the Orlais ambassadors and the other from Bann Esmerelle in Amaranthine."

She lifted an eyebrow quizzically.

"I don't know, m'lady," he answered her unspoken question. "Both have used very intricate seals which I haven't had time to break. It's unknown how they knew the King was here." Doyle's speech was neat and precise, much like his person. "I recommend we use the Captain to feed Eamon information."

Auria nodded agreement, "Continue."

"Two templars rode off at sunrise, Rylock was not among them. I've heard rumors of strife within the Chantry, a civil war of clergy, if you will, each templar and priest choosing a side. These are unfounded rumors as of yet. I hope to bring you concrete evidence – I've sent a man to follow the templars." His jaw clenched as he stared out the window.

"What are you not telling me?" Auria's voice was deceptively quiet.

With a sigh, Doyle answered bluntly, "Arl Eamon has added Chancellor and Regent to his titles."

Auria's nostrils flared and strands of hair floated from her carefully smoothed bun. The room grew noticeably colder.

"He convinced Alistair it was a necessary step when leaving Denerim on campaign."

After all she had done to keep this very thing from happening. All the mincing words and petty politics she'd been forced to play into. "But the Landsmeet – they must've been called if he was naming a Regent."

"They were, but Eamon pushed it through quickly – not many attended, and those who did were in his pocket. He's turned many of your allies, including most the ears you left in the castle."

The fire in the hearth flickered low, valiantly sputtering to give off heat.

"Commander," Doyle said gently.

"Continue," she shook off his concern. "Quickly."

"I'm working on obtaining proof, but I believe Eamon engineered the mix-ups in both your departure and the King's. Alistair was told you couldn't be bothered to wait for him, and you would see him in six months. Those were the King's words to me as we traveled; I haven't found who fed him that information."

"That… explains quite a bit."

"Also, you were correct. Several parties are planned for this coming summer, with an eye to finding a Queen for Ferelden."

The fireplace guttered and nearly went out, flaring into life again at the sudden sound of booted footsteps and a jaunty whistle.

"Here," Doyle said hastily, "Copies of Eamon's letters to the nobles and to Celene."

Auria looked at him sharply, and Doyle allowed himself a quick grin. His face changed when he smiled, almost as if he were a different man.

"I found Eamon's cache, a panel behind—" The sleight man stood, moving a few paces away. "The King should be here shortly, Commander," he bowed, his voice perfectly even and official. Auria tucked all the documents into the desk.

"You speak, and here I am," Alistair said smiling from the doorway. "Pretty soon I'm just going to put a crown on you and send you out in my place. Then I'll layabout and eat cheese all day. You think they'd buy it?"

"Maybe if you cut your hair and dyed his. Doyle, how are you with stilts?"

"As good as I am with everything else," he gave a small smile.

"Yes, that black cropped hair just won't do. Grow it out, will you? Then I can spend my days in glorious relaxation."

"I would be happy to be your doppelganger, your majesty. Whenever you need me," Doyle replied, quite seriously.

"Yes, I know you would. Let's hope events never force us into that."

His statement was followed by a lull. She felt a superstitious need to knock on wood, to nullify any events that could bring about the need for that desperate tactic.

"Is this a private party, or can anyone join? I'm not quite clear on the membership rules, they seem pretty lax."

Auria turned to see Anders standing in the doorway. His last statement seemed to be directed at Doyle, who stood impassively behind her. Up close the Orlesian clothes were even more… enhancing. She had to look away before she found herself staring at what shouldn't be stared at.

"I need to speak to Auria, alone."

"No," Alistair cut in before Auria could answer, "Absolutely not."

"It's funny, you don't look like Auria to me. Must be my eyes."

"And it's funny to me, you don't look like a dead man. Maybe it's the painted on pants."

"Oh? You fancy the Orlesian style, do you? I didn't know you swung that way. You hear rumors, but…" he let the sentence trail off suggestively.

Alistair bristled, stepping forward with clenched hands as Anders leaned against the door frame. "I can just as easily call the templars back."

"Please do. If I don't get some answers, I'll be calling them back for you."

"We don't have time for this," Auria placed a restraining hand on Alistair's arm. "Anders…" her brows drew together as she looked at him. She could guess what he wanted now, seeing the feigned nonchalance of his posture. Finding him passed out in the middle of the floor last night had angered her, but another part of her had been relieved. She knew he would immediately question the need to gather darkspawn blood. From the looks of it, he'd found out anyhow. "I can't give you information on the joining, if that's what you've come for."

"I can't go through a magic ritual I know nothing about." His eyes asked her to understand, asked her the question she knew he wanted, needed answered.

"Oh, so are you refusing to go through the joining then?" Alistair huffed. "Rather be hung by your neck as an apostate? Fat lot of good that'll do to help the people, but I suppose your type doesn't care about that."

"My type?"

"You know, selfish cowards."

"Well, better to die as a selfish coward than to live as a blood mage."

Auria felt rather than saw the concerned glance Alistair shot her way, but she kept her face still as stone. She'd known how Anders felt about blood magic, she'd known it at the Circle when she'd sliced into her arm and bent him to her will. It had been to save his life, but that wouldn't matter to him. Just as it didn't matter to him now. Little did he know becoming a blood mage was the least he had to fear from the joining, once the ritual ended he would be something far worse. Tainted. For life. No children, no old age, no peaceful death.

"Are you really that stupid, you think one little ritual will turn you into a blood mage? What about all the warriors and rogues?"

"Are you really that stupid you never questioned a magic rite involved blood? Oh wait, I see you are."

Auria ground her teeth, shutting off her emotions like one would a faucet. None of this mattered, not what he wanted, not what he thought. The simple truth was that Rylock would kill him. It was up to her to make the hard choices, whether people liked them or not. Initiating him into the Wardens may set a finite limit to his life, but it was better than any of his immediate prospects.

"You think so?" Alistair was saying. "Not all blood magic is evil, some blood mages are good people and help others."

"This, from an ex-templar? And a king? Maybe I better get out of Ferelden, if that's the way you're going to rule."

"Thinking of escaping? Please do." A new voice came from the hallway.

Anders sniffed. "What's that I smell? Is that… dog piss?"

"Your nose has no discernment, mage. Can't you tell Mabari piss when you smell it?"

The two men shared a grin, and Auria shook her head. Men. How quickly they united against a common foe.

"Speaking openly of blood magic now? It's a sin to control any animal, especially the Ferelden war dog. You will all pay for your transgressions."

"Oh please. You do know you get worse with every passing year? What are they, feeding you crazy in your morning porridge?" Anders moved farther into the room and reclined into a soft chair by the fireplace.

"It's sad, really. I've seen many templars go this way. All that silence and prayer – it's not healthy. Maybe I should make a rule."

"The chantry is not ruled by a mere king," Rylock sneered, all semblance of respect fading away. "A craven man, corrupted by the foulness in which he lay." Her eyes turned to Auria, "I will see this land wiped clean of maleficarum, grey wardens or no."

The fire in the room guttered and went out. "Then you will see it wiped clean another day." A small gust of wind pushed Rylock back a step. "This is Warden business and you are interrupting a private conversation," she smoothed back her hair, making sure no strands rose from her bun.

"Do you seriously believe all grey wardens are maleficars? You realize that is impossible?" The King's voice was actually concerned, as if he did wonder how sane the woman was. Auria could've answered that for him.

"I think it's the lyrium, gives them delusions." Anders said lightly, but she wasn't fooled. Right now he was probably wondering if Rylock was correct in her paranoia.

"You don't all appear to be Wardens to me."

Auria followed her gaze to where Doyle stood unnoticed in the back of the room. She inclined her head slightly at him.

"Your majesty, these two missives were delivered here for you today," the small man handed the King two sealed letters. "I would've given them to you sooner, but…" his glance encompassed both templar and apostate. "Ser Rylock, let me show you down to the main hall."

**...**

Anders sat in silence as he watched the King pace about the room. The man kept running his hands through his short hair, making an already ridiculous hairstyle more ridiculous. Whatever the letters said, they obviously held bad news. They both turned at the rustle of papers as Auria finished the last letter. Her elven frame looked tiny and somehow frail, even behind the already petite desk. Then, as she straightened briskly, that moment was gone and she radiated authority once again.

"You'll have to leave tonight, as early as your men can break camp." Her voice was flat, without emotion, but it didn't look like the King was taking it personally. If anything, the look he gave the small woman was consoling, as if she were crying instead of staring at him with a mask of stone. "I'll invite the local nobles here, and make your excuses. I've gotten very good at petty politics, no matter what _my title_ is."

There was a pause as the two of them stared at one another. He wasn't sure what was going on, but whatever it was it seemed to run much deeper than the words themselves.

"Auria," Alistair reached for her arm. She let him hold it a moment before she broke away and moved in front of the window. The darkening clouds played across her face.

"There's a storm due in tonight, a large one from what I can tell. It feels like ice."

"I don't like moving my men in the dark, it would be better if we left in the morning. We don't have to—"

"I doubt there will be much morning in the morning. I'd get as far north as you can by midnight." Her voice was as cold as the room. Anders rubbed his arms and flicked a bit of power toward the hearth, sighing as the flames warmed his fingers.

"I'm sorry, Auria. I thought it for the best. If something happens to me the country needs to have authority in place. I was going to tell you…" The King's arms wrapped around her even as she tried to pull away, and Anders thought he saw a break in the hardened expression on her face. "I really am sorry," he tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. They were going to kiss. Right here. In front of him. Like the Maker's balls, they were.

"Hello, important question over here," Anders waved his hand to get their attention. "Blood magic, templars, death… remember?"

"You're still here?" Alistair turned to look at him, but kept his arms around the petite elf. She barely came up to his shoulder. That was the only reason the man's chest looked so broad. It was an optical illusion.

"I'm not the one riding out tonight," Anders smirked.

"Really? Those vials of blood you're so worried about? You ingest them. Shall I call back Rylock now? I'm sure she'd be happy to leave before the storm rolls in."

"Alistair," Auria's tone was exasperated.

"We have to do the ritual immediately, don't we? Not like he wouldn't find out in five minutes," the King defended himself, but his voice was sheepish.

"So it is blood magic." Anders stomach swirled, like the bottom of the world had just dropped away. "The ones that disappear – it's like the Harrowing? You kill the ones who give in to the blood?" How had she expected him to do this? How had she done it herself? There had been a blight, he told himself, she didn't have a choice, she might not have known. He looked up to find her eyes impassively on his. Maybe he didn't know her anymore – or maybe the joining had changed her. "I can't do it. You're right, go ahead and call the harpy back." He dropped his head into his hands. So much for freedom and saving people. The only difference he would make was on a length of rope waiting for him.

"Go on," he heard Alistair sigh and looked up to find them gesturing to one another.

"It's not like the Harrowing. We don't kill recruits once they pass the ritual." Auria's eyes flicked up to Alistair and back. "Blood magic doesn't normally rely on stored blood. It's the sacrifice that gives power, the taking of life force. The longer the time between magic and sacrifice, the smaller the amount of power gained." Her voice was cool and clipped, like she was giving a lecture to a particularly recalcitrant apprentice. "Are our phylacteries created with blood magic?"

The question caught him by surprise. "I… maybe. I don't know."

"They are. The ritual uses blood, but the sacrifice is so small and – _normally_ – a great length of time passes before it's needed. That gives the user a small amount of knowledge about whomever the blood was taken from, but it doesn't give them power over the subject."

"Well that's good to know. Although I guess if they could use it for control, Rylock would've had me hanging myself a long time ago."

"The joining is—"

"Auria," the King cut in, "You don't have to tell him all this."

"—similar. Only you ingest the blood instead of putting it into glass. It won't control you. A person chooses to become a blood mage," her mouth turned down. "You have to will it."

Anders studied her face. There was something she wasn't saying, something that caused Alistair to squeeze her shoulder, as if she needed support. Her gaze was serious and focused intensely on him, the green of her eyes so dark they were almost black. He remembered when they were once flecked with gold, like a leaf on the first day of autumn. He wanted to believe her. He wanted to be a Warden – it was something he'd never considered, but now it was the only future that felt right. Only—

"Initiates die."

She shrugged. "It's darkspawn blood. Like any poison, your system has to be strong enough to handle it. You need to be a survivor."

The room hung in silence.

"Well, if your king there withstood it, I guess I have nothing to worry about," Anders stretched lazily in the chair. "Shouldn't we get to it? I heard someone has to leave soon."

He laughed to himself as he heard the King grumbling to Auria behind him, each trudge of his boot a stomp. The night might turn out much better than he'd hoped. Certainly it would be much better than the night before.

It didn't occur to him until much later that someone else might not be the survivor he was, and by then it was too late.


	14. Chapter 14

_Vigil's Keep, Amaranthine_

Auria stood in front of him, eyes like limpid pools in a secluded forest glen. Their calmness should've been reassuring, but instead he felt uneasy. Her stillness disturbed him almost as much as the goblet she held out to him. He hesitated a moment, the grave words she'd spoken only moments ago repeating in his head.

"Join us, brothers and sisters. Join us in the shadows where we stand, vigilant. Join us as we carry the duty that cannot be forsworn. And should you perish know that your sacrifice shall not be forgotten and that one day we shall join you."

This was it. Anders reached out, accepting the goblet. His fingers brushed hers and for a moment he felt a connection, but then she withdrew and he was left holding the chalice alone as the king took her arm. The cup was colder than he expected, and the dark liquid it held looked black in the dim light of the room. Darkspawn blood. He knew it, but couldn't help repeating the words aloud. Speaking the words seemed to draw him in closer. The darkened surface of the goblet ate the light, like a hole. There was no reflection. Why was that? Shouldn't it reflect something? But there was nothing, not even a muted sheen.

"From this moment forth, Anders," Auria's voice cut into his thoughts, "You are a Grey Warden." Her soft words seemed loud in the quiet room. Even Oghren didn't make a sound. He'd drunk from the goblet first, draining it down to the dregs as if it was nothing more than a new type of alcohol. For a moment, Anders thought that was all it was for the stocky man – he'd even smacked his lips afterward. Then with a clank of armor the dwarf sat heavily onto the ground. He stared in front of him, eyes blank, silent and unseeing.

Anders' gaze flicked from Oghren to Auria to Alistair and then back down at the goblet. Was it his imagination or did the king just smirk at him?

"If I wake up two weeks from now on a ship bound for Rivain in nothing but my smallclothes and a tattoo on my forehead, I'm blaming you," Anders said, raising an eyebrow at Alistair. It wasn't his imagination, the man was smirking.

He lifted the goblet and drank.

...

Blood. It ran through his body, surging like a river set free from a damn, pushing away bits of him as if his mind were only so much flotsam and jetsam. He was unraveling. He screamed, but it was a soundless, formless scream. He had no throat, no shape. Thoughts eddied tantalizingly out of reach, rushing away before he could grasp them. The more he struggled, the more the currents stripped him. They tore away the fragmented pieces of self he clung to, throwing him into sickening, thick darkness. Was he dying? Was this the Fade? He struggled to hold onto his questions, as if he could wrap them around himself like twine and tie his consciousness together.

It was no use; the blood became a roaring black fire, eating through his veins, his body, his very being. There would be nothing left. He was Anders. Anders. He clung to the name, but what was a name? It was only a word. Sounds strung together. The meaning left him and he lost cohesion.

He was the great, amassing darkness.

He was the fetid black decay eating the world.

He was a song.

He was pain.

Flames licked the side of the house. The dog was howling, his brother screaming. Anders struggled in someone's arms. He had to go to him. He had to help. There was something wrong with his brother's leg, it was twisted at a strange angle and it felt wrong. Anders could feel it radiating like heat, and it hurt, it hurt. Was it his pain? Or his brother's? The world seemed to tug at him, pulling him apart.

"Let him."

It was his father's voice, and his tiny five-year old heart soared. But he wasn't five anymore, was he?

"Let him," the voice came again, almost drowned out by another scream. Yes, let him. Let him. He reached out his hands.

"Dirty Orlesians!" the cry came from outside, and a rock tore through the window sending shards of glass like confetti all over the room. His mother's window. She cleaned it every day.

The room hung in stunned silence for a moment as the shouting outside raged on. Then sounds. Sounds Anders had never heard before. A keening high-pitched cry like that of an animal, followed by gasping, convulsive sobs. He wanted to turn, to see, to move, but he was locked within tight arms. The world dislocated. It was a raging fire - a flame that burnt his hands, seared his face. It was a broken song, shearing through him in discordance. It was a windstorm, pulling him into its center.

It was the rock he noticed first. He'd been playing with it outside. It had been part of his fort, and he'd admired it for the swirling grey colors and long sharp edge. The grey was smeared with red now, a viscous, bright crimson. That same crimson was splattered all over the rug. His eyes followed it to where his sister lay, unmoving. Blood was matted into her blonde hair, the curls now streaked with darkening blood. It ran in congealing sticky lines down her face, her neck.

He was dimly aware of outside events: his father leaving, carrying his brother in his arms as he cried; the sizzling as buckets of water pelting the walls, showering over them through the open window; the clanking sound of armored guards quelling the men outside. None of it mattered. This was the center of the storm, the heart of the burning fire, the source of all discordance. She hurt. She shouldn't. It was wrong. His small hands reached out, barely covering the mass of crimson that was his sister's head. He wouldn't let her hurt. He wouldn't.

It wasn't enough. Her eyes glazed over and the storm began to tatter him into pieces. The keening became a wailing that circled around him.

No. It hadn't happened like that.

His mother's beautiful, lilting voice rang out in a prayer to Andraste. Even at this darkest moment it wasn't pleading, nor was it terrified. It was strong and filled with passion.

With life.

A dark, seething mass pounded into the depths of the earth, writhing like maggots in dead flesh. He could see them, feel them, hear them. He was them. They searched. They yearned. They raged. A dragon rose up, great blackened wings spanning his vision, blotting out the fiery chasms below. He fell to his knees.

And looked up into the disfigured face of a man, one eye gone and the other one streaming with tears.

"I didn't do it," he said, but there was nothing and no one to say it to. The thought dissipated into the void.

It was cold.

"Keep this around you," a soft voice said. He could hear the smile in it and he looked up. "I know you hate it, but just until you're better."

He didn't like the blanket. It wasn't like their old ones, soft and silken and woven out of beautiful colors. It was scratchy and brown and smelled faintly of sheep. He knew his mother had made it especially for him, but he still didn't like it or their new house. It was out in the middle of nowhere. No friends, no neighbors. Just a harsh, ever-crashing sea on one side and a tall, forbidding forest on the other. The only thing that made up for it was Nan. When they'd left the city she'd been here, waiting for them.

Their move was indistinct in his mind. Queen Rowan had died. There had been fighting. Then he'd had to sleep in a small space hidden in the floor of a wagon with his mother. It had been dark and hard to breathe.

The room faded into indistinct edges and blurred colors. Only Nan's face was in focus, brilliant and smiling. She was dead. He knew she was dead.

"Why don't we have pointed ears like yours?" he asked. He asked that a lot, but he was never satisfied with the answer. Most of the time she pretended to have his ears clasped in her fists, or told him he'd lost them in his toys and if he cleaned up his belongings, maybe he'd find them. But today she just looked at him, those peculiar green eyes regarding him as if he were as transparent as glass. Shame filled him. She knew. She knew all the petty little things he'd done over the years, the girls he'd lied to, the things he'd stolen, every time he'd been afraid and turned away from what he knew was right, every time he'd given up and welcomed death at the tower.

The world turned to shadow. He could feel them, rancid and decaying and tainting his senses. The song. They were called.

"My ears are hidden within in you, they are in your blood," Nan whispered, and pressed a hand to his forehead. Her touch burned through him and he tried to pull back, but he couldn't. "Anders," she named him. Her voice lilted like his mother's. They weren't inside the house now, but out on the rocky cliffs, the ocean beating like a drum below them. "What was the first lesson I taught you?" she asked.

Anders opened his mouth to answer, but she wasn't there. He was falling, falling down into the ocean. The cold water seared him as he plunged into its dark depths, a thousand icicles piercing his skin. He surged upward, breaking the surface into the daylight.

"Remember," Nan said, but it wasn't her voice any longer. Soft fingers stroked his hair back from his forehead. "Anders." It was Auria's voice. Auria's touch.

"He's alive," he heard another voice say. "He made it."

And then he slept, a deep, dreamless sleep.

.~.~.~.~.

"It's time." Auria could see the saddled horses tromping in the courtyard. With his usual efficiency Doyle already had the men marching, leaving nothing but flattened grass in their wake. Only the honor guard remained behind.

"I could stay, just a little bit longer. One more day."

Auria looked down at their clasped hands, Alistair's fingers looked so brown against her pale ones. "The storm will last longer than that. No, it's better if you leave now." She felt him study her face.

"It wasn't your fault," his voice was warm, it could wrap around and hold her if she let it. "It's the risk and burden grey wardens carry, and—"

"And I better get used to it."

"That's not what I was going to say, and you know it."

"Yes, well, I knew she wasn't grey warden material. I should've refused. I _could've_ refused, if I had thought more about her and less about rebuilding the wardens. But that's not my job, is it? It's never been my job to care about the individual, not when there's some greater cause to think about."

"Auria…" Alistair used their intertwined hands to pull her close to him. He had his armor on again and it was cold and hard against her cheek. "You can't blame yourself."

"You don't understand," she looked up at him. Their faces were so close she could count every freckle, she could even see the faint white line of scar where a Hurlock's blade had nearly taken a slice out of him. "I don't blame myself. I don't feel anything. No sorrow or guilt, not even disappointment. And I should, shouldn't I? I used to, before—" she stopped.

Before when? Before the blight, certainly. Before becoming a grey warden? Or further back? Before using blood magic? Before watching the templars whip Anders within an inch of his life?

Her voice came out sharper than she intended, "Rylock has some priest in there with her, giving Mhairi last rights before her funeral pyre and the only thing I feel is annoyance and resignation that rebuilding the wardens will be slow."

"No," he tilted his head down to hers until their foreheads touched. "That's what you tell yourself so you can do what you need to do. It's not what you feel. _I_ know what you feel."

"And that's why it's better if you leave now." She closed her eyes, using a slight bit of magic to pull back the tears that threatened to well, "I've never fought a campaign without you – there won't be anyone here to be my heart, to remind me that I have one. If you stay then I'll want you to stay. Not for a day or a night, but for…" _for always,_ she finished in her mind. She swallowed. "I have to learn to do this without you. It's just better if you go now."

Alistair stared down at her, a faint line creasing between his eyebrows. She knew that look, it was the look he got when he was trying to puzzle something out. Before he could say anything she stood on her toes, capturing his mouth with her own. He faltered for a moment, as if some part of him realized it for the distraction it was, but then his arms were around her and he was kissing her back. Electricity careened through her at the hotness of his mouth, at the velvety smoothness of his tongue twisting around hers. Need blossomed like fire, consuming all thought. The walls Auria held around her collapsed in its heat. She poured all her love into the kiss, melting into him without reservation. This was all there was in the world.

It was too much. Alistair pulled away slowly, looking down at her with a strange expression.

"I will be back," he said firmly.

"I know." The words were whispered. She forced herself to look into his eyes and smile.

"Auria…"

"Everything's fine. They're waiting." Slipping out of his arms she swiftly crossed the Hall, throwing open the doors before Alistair caught her. The guards snapped to attention at the sight of their king.

"Wait," Alistair grasped her arm as they stood on the steps. Wind whipped around them. "Auria." He kissed her. A single, perfect kiss. "I'll be back as soon as I can."

She nodded. Smiled. One of the guards led Alistair's horse, Bucket, to them and then stood ready to help him into the saddle. Scenting the storm in the air the animal nickered uneasily, sidestepping until Alistair reached out to calm him with a touch. The beast still glared a baleful eye at her, as if she were responsible for all that was wrong in the world.

"What do you do, pinch him when I'm not looking?" Alistair laughed, reaching for her again. "I'll have you know I never pinched your mabari, not once."

"That's because he'd have taken your arm off," she answered wryly, turning his reach into a hug and then pushing him lightly towards the waiting guard.

The sun broke through the clouds as he swung his leg over Bucket's back, making both horse and rider gleam. She couldn't help admiring the pair, and her heart gave a sharp pang as if one of the horse's hooves had kicked her in the chest. This might be the last time she saw him like this. She almost couldn't take his hand as he leaned down to her.

"You'll do fine here, Commander," he smiled down at her, "You always do."

She couldn't answer. This was her last chance. She could say something, right now. Tell him not to… but she couldn't. Let him be happy, she thought, at least for a little while longer.

He touched her face, pressing his palm to her cheek. They stayed there, a tableau. He on horseback reaching down, her on tiptoe leaning up. It would make a pretty picture if you didn't look close enough, she thought. Too close, like she was, and you could see the shadows passing over Alistair's face. She knew her own face remained the same, her eyes like sorrowful hard stones. But Alistair's… The longer their pose held, the sadder his face grew. Her name was on his lips, repeating, until it was just a breath, a whisper, a hope. "Auria."

And finally she could say something, just one word. She covered his hand with hers, holding it to her cheek. "Don't."

"Don't what?" his brows drew together in confusion and a sick, nauseous feeling bloomed in her stomach.

"Marry." The word came out little more than a whisper, and the wind whipped it away as soon as it left her lips. Still, he heard.

"They're just treaty meetings," his hand dropped from her cheek and she took an inadvertent step forward.

"Don't ."

"I'm not – that's so far into the future why worry…" his words trailed off as Auria shook her head. "That's not what you mean."

Alistair tried to get down off the horse, but she blocked him. "They're ready, you have to leave now."

"We have to talk about this." His voice was breaking.

"There's nothing to talk about." Like stone, she thought. I am the stone. The ice. She let the cold fill her. "No talking. Just think about it."

"Auria, I…'

"You have to go."

His horse turned around and nearly bit her, snapping the air where her arm had been. Alistair restrained the beast, sidling Bucket closer to the steps where she now stood.

"I love you." He reached a hand out and she took it, pressing her lips to his palm.

"I love you, too." She smiled, a real smile. Alistair grinned back at her and for a moment her heart soared. Then she smacked the rump of his horse, sending Bucket bounding out in front of the other horses. Alistair turned back toward her but she waved him on. The word goodbye was too final, too absolute. She could see the hesitation on his face and then he nodded, waving back to her. The horse was only too happy to leave her behind.

Auria turned and marched up the steps without waiting to see if he looked back. She felt as numb as the frosty wind made her hands. Sometimes love isn't enough, she told herself, wishing the numbness would spread to the ache in her throat.

Before she could pull the door open a soldier ran up to her, his breath coming out in plumes of white.

"Commander," he nodded once. "About the prisoner—"

"What prisoner?" Auria turned toward him, fighting the urge to look out through the gate.

"The man—We locked him up three nights ago. With the storm coming – well." He cleared his throat uncomfortably, "There's only so much wood and we didn't know…"

"You didn't know if he should be kept warm, or be allowed to freeze to death, saving us the trouble of sentencing?"

"Uh… yes?"

"He was caught before the darkspawn attack? What was his crime?"

"Yes, Commander, three nights ago. We caught him thieving, sneaking around like a dirty rogue. It took four of your fellow wardens to take him down."

"Four grey wardens?" She felt a tickle of surprise. Had the Orlesian wardens been lax, or was the man just that good?

The solider nodded, almost apologetically.

"Take me to him."

.~.~.~.~.

Anders groaned, holding his head. Had he been drinking with Oghren again? When would he learn his lesson?

The dwarf was mid-song, in what Anders surmised was the worst rendition of a drinking tune imaginable. The fiery-haired man punctuated each verse with a loud belch. The reek of sour alcohol nearly made him gag. Why, why did he keep waking up this way?

"Oghren," he muttered. "Could you please stop torturing me? I'm rather fond of my ears, and I think they're about to curl up and die." Like the rest of me, he added silently.

"Heh, I wondered when you'd wake up. Are all mages such pansies, or is it just you?"

"I really couldn't say. The circle didn't give me opportunity to do much testing. What was it you poured down my throat this time? And would you please refrain from plying me with alcohol in the future? You're not my type, no matter how drunk you get me."

"Don't flatter yourself, magic-boy, this was all your doing. You're telling me you don't remember?" Anders could hear genuine surprise in Oghren's voice. "A big goblet? A fancy 'we are brothers' speech? Your eyes rolling back in your head?"

The joining. He'd survived the joining. Anders mentally checked himself. He felt bruised and nauseous, but not much worse for wear. "What happened?"

"I just told you."

"No, after the joining."

"You drank, your eyes rolled back into your skull and you fell on the floor twitching for about five minutes. They said you'd live, and I, out of the goodness of my heart, came back here to watch you lay in a drunken stupor. Lightweight. You should be thanking me."

"Thank you for making my nose hairs singe. Better?"

"Yeah, that's more like it."

"Auria sent you to watch me, didn't she?"

Oghren huffed. "Maybe. But I still did it."

Anders pulled himself into a sitting position. His head seemed to be clearing. "What happened to you?"

"I don't want to talk about it," the dwarf growled, taking a swig from the flask he was holding. "Commander said to get you to the kitchen for meat and that vinegar you call red wine when you finally woke up."

At the mention of food Anders' stomach growled, all nausea gone.

"Well, lead on. An order is an order."

…

The cook nearly cracked a smile at him when they entered the kitchen, though she glared at Oghren. For some reason this made him unreasonably happy, and he gave the dwarf a smug look as she set a much larger helping of spiced stew down in front of him. His chunk of meat was decidedly larger, and the dwarf scowled.

"Glad to see you made it," she gruffed. "Sorry about the girl."

Anders' smugness vanished. "The girl?"

"Mhairi didn't make it." Oghren didn't look up, saying the words to his plate.

A lump rose in his throat, making it hard to swallow. He had to force his bite of meat down, nearly choking. Didn't make it. It was only this morning that he'd spoken with her, teasing her into a blush. And yesterday – she'd fought with a broken arm, her swing never wavering. She'd been brave and strong, and had been willing to accept him as a brother even though it was obvious she had no love for apostates. Now she was dead, and he couldn't even remember it happening. Maybe if he hadn't passed out he could've saved her. Maybe if he'd been stronger…

A dragon filled his mind, wings spreading over his vision. It pinned him like a butterfly to a board as its head turned his way. The putrescent smell of decay washed over him.

A tankard pressed into his hand. Anders drank, the warmth of wine spread pleasantly through his limbs, pushing back the cold sickness that threatened to unman him. The vision faded. Darkspawn ran in his veins now. The idea dragged him at him, and he stared at the pulse in his wrist. Tainted.

"If I'd gone to Amaranthine first, without stopping in that tavern none of this would be happening," he murmured into the mug, more to himself than anyone else. That wouldn't have stopped Mhairi from being dead, a part of his mind added. And you wouldn't know that Auria was alive. "Better that I didn't."

The dwarf let out a disbelieving huff of air. "Better that you didn't what? Let me tell you, being a warden is the only worthwhile thing in this world. And if you weren't one, the templars would've hanged you by now. Yeah, much better than this. Sodding humans."

Anders swallowed down the last of his wine and filled the tankard again. "I could've found my phylactery," he said, his words slurring slightly. "It's why I came back. She was going to tell me where they moved it."

"More eating, less talking," the cook shushed him, taking his mug and setting it on the table. "These aren't your private quarters."

"I trust you. You gave me an apple. And honey."

"Honey?" Oghren sat up. "There's honey?"

"No," the large woman said sharply, her broad shoulders towering over them. "No honey. And it's not me you have to worry about." Her eyes flashed to the doorway.

Anders looked. "There's no one there." He sighed, reaching for his mug again. "I'll never find Namaya now. Not that it matters."

The cook harrumphed disapprovingly, turning back to the fire. "Always with the "ifs" and "buts". And they never listen. Not even my own girl. Talk when they should be silent. Keep their mouth shut when they should be talking. Don't mind me. Old cook doesn't know anything but how to bake bread."

"There's no honey? What about mead? Is there mead?"

"Oghren," Anders interrupted, staring again at the pulse in his wrist. "You don't feel it?"

The dwarf was silent. "Yeah, I feel it," he finally said. "And you know what it tells me? That we can kill them." He let out a loud belch. "Besides, it won't feel so strange tomorrow, Warden said so. And as far as I can tell, the dreams don't get bad until later."

"The dreams? What dreams?"

"Oh, there's dreams." He lowered his voice as the cook left for the pantry. "Commander had 'em bad. But that was a blight." He squinted his eyes at the mage, "How'd you get honey if there's none? Did you eat the last of it, because that's not fair. You surfacers, taking your wheat and grains and bees all for granted."

"Oghren, the dreams?"

"They're _dreams_. It comes along with being able to know where the bastards are. They all think in this big mess, see, and now we listen in. You hear them. So you get dreams." He shrugged his shoulders, dismissing it.

"What else, what other changes?"

"Did you hear the one about the nug and the farmer? This surfacer was digging, see, and he dug so far down that…"

"What else changes?" Anders asked again, grabbing the flask from the dwarf's hand.

"I wouldn't do that," he growled, his face turning as red as his beard.

Anders handed back the drink, giving him a direct look.

"What changes? My death. I'll die with honor now, in battle like a warrior should. May the stone take me." He slogged back the rest of his whiskey. "We'll all die heroes. Like men. Even if you don't want to, you sparkly-assed mage. Sooner or later you'll come to the deep roads." He hiccupped. "But you ask me, the best side effect—No women trying to tie you down and nag at you for not being the man they want. No more saddling you with children. And then taking…" he stopped, pulling out a new flask. "Not that it matters for you, hey?" Oghren elbowed him in the side. "What do they do, neuter all you mages at birth? That why you all wear dresses?"

"What?" Anders asked faintly, trying to unscramble the dwarf's words so they made sense.

"I told you boys these aren't your private chambers," the cook said, carrying a massive bucket of flour into the kitchen. "You want to talk about neutering and dresses, you go to your own rooms."

"Uhh…" Oghren glanced guiltily at the large woman. Like a smith, Anders couldn't help thinking again. "We weren't talking warden business. Just… you know, women. Worse than brontos in heat. Either trying to wring whiskey from a stone, or throwing the stone at you and leaving you for another woman."

"I don't care what you were doing. Since you don't know when to keep your own council, you can either eat or leave my kitchen."

"Yes'm." The dwarf took a bite of meat. "You know, you kind of remind me of my mother."

Anders silently spooned the stew into his mouth. The dish had grown cold, but it still warmed him. He wondered what sort of meat it was, venison? Would they waste venison on them? They were grey wardens now, so maybe.

It made sense that grey wardens would travel to the deep roads – not that he liked the idea, but that was where the darkspawn came from, right? But he didn't want to die there, buried beneath all that rock. The thought sent a snaking current of panic through him. Like being shoved back into that hole, deep in the Kinloch Hold. No fresh air, no light, nothing but dirt and rock and bugs. He pushed the images away with a shudder.

What did Oghren mean, neutered? Another one of his jokes? He glanced at the dwarf, who was now lifting the stew to his mouth and drinking it down with stomach-churning slurping sounds. Or were they not allowed to be married? Big change there, no one wanted mages to marry either. But something the phrasing nagged at him.

He stood up. "Where is the Commander?"

"I'd guess she's somewhere inside the Keep. Or maybe outside," Oghren belched the last word.

"I'll keep this for you," the cook said, with what Anders was coming to realize was her smile.

"Remember what I said, mage," the dwarf called after him.

"Which time?" he called back, moving quickly down the hallway. There was no reply, and Anders laughed as entered the next room. He turned just in time to run into a suit of armor. He didn't remember that being there, why did someone…

The suit of armor turned, lifting the helmet from its head.

"So, you lived. Pity."

Damn, Anders thought, sinking to his knees as he felt the mana drain from him. Why did he always have to run into her at the most inopportune times?


End file.
